


3:57

by charlesanthonybruno, NoMomImTotallyNotReadingPorn



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Nazis, Slow Burn, Time Travel, one dumb dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 09:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 108,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13245465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesanthonybruno/pseuds/charlesanthonybruno, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoMomImTotallyNotReadingPorn/pseuds/NoMomImTotallyNotReadingPorn
Summary: Brad Colbert is eight years old when Nazi Germany drops an atomic bomb on DC and wins WWII.A Generation Kill AU based on The Man in the High Castle.





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO, FANDOM. It has been a long a bloody battle, but it's here at last. We hope you'll enjoy it. Heartfelt thanks to tumblr user @astreetsussserenade for the much needed feedback and support.
> 
> This is based on the characters portrayed by actors on a TV show based on a book by Evan Wright, so please, please, please, we KNOW the icky factor is up to 300% at times given the subject matter, and we are NOT linking any of the content of this fic to any real people sharing names with the characters written about here.

 

____________

 

####  **PROLOGUE**

 

Close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out, open your eyes: there you are. Mike looks around, his surroundings not as alien as they were the first time, just enough to make his heart skip a beat before settling down again. That old, dusty chair in the corner. The gurgling noises from the kitchen sink. Twenty years will change your memories, make a small, damp, ill-lit apartment look cosy and welcoming. It’s empty, though, and that’s the only thing that matters.

 

He walks over to the window and looks at the street below. There are kids playing a bastard version of baseball right in the middle of it. For a second, Mike’s breath catches, the urge to scream at them to get out of there so strong his mouth opens before he remembers. Nothing’s going to happen to them. Not yet.

Not ever. Mike’s here to make sure of that.

 

He turns away from the window and checks his pockets. His left hand finds a small, square piece of paper folded in half, his right brushes the corner of a thick envelope. He exhales, relieved. Everything he needs traveled safely with him. The enormity of the task ahead dawns on him, as it did randomly since the whole plan was hatched.

Jesus, what the hell were they thinking? What the hell is he thinking, standing there like the future of the world doesn’t depend on him?

 

Mike gives himself five seconds to fully comprehend how mad this scheme is, chuckling hopelessly, a hand over his mouth to keep the hysteria from getting out. Despite the odds and how high the stakes, there’s no dread, no latent doubt, no fear. It’s simple, just like Brad said:  Failure is not an option, not in this mission. Brad knows this better than anyone, so Mike’s inclined to take his word for it. Hell, the envelope in his pocket is solid proof that Brad trusts him not only with the success of his mission, but also with his own hazardous chance at happiness.

Fucking Brad. Fucking Nate. What Mike wouldn’t do for these kids.

 

He takes the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and studies it. It’s more of a habit by now, the photograph and scribbled time and place burnt in his memory from hours of going over them during planning.

Time to get to work.

 

First things first, he needs to find a newspaper and make sure he’s when he’s supposed to be. Then. Well. Then he’s saving the world. Hopefully.

 

________________________________________________

 

 

####  **1944**

 

 

The train cuts through the vast empty plains of Kansas, its mechanical rumbling by turns soothing and irritating. The car is full and noisy, smoke clinging to the cracked open windows, every single seat taken by frazzled passengers whose clothes are starting to get that crumpled look from having been worn too long. They have been traveling for over a day now, and the journey isn’t half over yet.

 

It is October 15th, 1944, Brad Colbert is eight years old.

 

It’s his first train trip. He wanted to go for a long time, and his dad always laughed and said ‘perhaps next year, son’. Now he’s travelling, but his dad isn’t with him.

 

Brad is traveling with five other boys and Mrs Landingham, the lady from the orphanage he has to pretend he was raised in. It’s very important, his mom said, you must never tell anyone you lived with us, do you understand, sweetheart? Brad doesn’t understand, but his mother looked so scared he promised anyway.

 

 _Things are going to change very soon_ , she said, _you must be brave, and you must protect yourself always, whatever it takes. Alright?_ Brad nodded, so that’s what he does now; he doesn’t think about his mother’s tears or how long his father held him before Mrs Landingham came to get him. He thinks: My name is Brad Colbert, my mother put me up for adoption when I was born and I went to the San Diego Children’s Home Association. I never met my parents. I am going to New York to be a ward of the state. He isn’t scared, and he isn’t sad. He is going to be brave, just like his mom asked him to.

 

The sun begins its slow descent toward the yellow horizon. Brad falls asleep with a frown on his face and his lower lip red and bitten.

 

 

Brad eats the last sandwich his mom made him when they stop in Chicago for a couple of hours.

 

He’s not scared, he’s not, but his eyes prickle and his throat closes up and he wants to go home. He doesn’t like it here. People  don’t smile, they wear blacks and greys and browns and they look like something terrible is about to happen, and Mrs Landingham smells funny. He rubs his sleeves against his face and swallows his sobs. He washes his hands and his face and makes sure to scrub his cheeks so they’re redder than his eyes.

 

 

New York is quiet as a grave. Stepping off the train and onto the platform is like entering another world. Brad sees haunted eyes in pale faces, haunted eyes in dark faces, fingers grasping at nothing, mouths open in soundless screams. The air is thick and still, bodies around him moving in slow, halting motions. He is surrounded by ghosts. His hand shoots out to tug at Mrs Landingham’s sleeve, but she barely slows down. She has gone as pale as the crowd, eyes wide and fearful, ear cocked as she rushes for the hall.

 

She hears it before Brad does and marches forward, pushes through the crowd, dragging them along, to get as close as she can to the source. Echoing faintly under the giant steel arches, a grainy voice is coming out of a small radio and repeating the same words over and over again.

 

_"At ten o’clock this morning, a German bomber dropped an atomic bomb on DC. At this time, it seems that no other bombs have been dropped, but German planes have been spotted over several major cities. If you saw or heard the explosion, stay inside. If you reside in a major city, stay inside. Do not attempt to contact friends or family members. We will keep you informed of any development. Please, remain calm."_

 

Years later, Brad Colbert will try to remember this, try to remember how he felt that moment, but he’ll come up empty.

 

What he remembers is looking at the man on his left, kneeling, a hand over his mouth, the other over his eyes. He is wearing the same little cap on his head that the dad Brad doesn’t have anymore wears sometimes.

 

He will remember: the same man slowly getting to his feet and making his way to the closest platform. Between one blink and the next: the same man, vanishing from sight. Nobody seems to notice, all grown ups standing in shock, listening to the same radio message over and over.

Something that Brad Colbert will learn later: he is eight years old, riding the train that is taking him to his new life when Germany drops an atomic bomb on DC, destroying most of the city, killing hundreds of thousands of people in seconds, and turning the entire area into a dead zone. It was a small bomb, they will say a week later, when the United States of America officially surrenders. It doesn’t matter.

Something that Brad Colbert will never know: when the news breaks, the mother he never had cries because she knows she’ll never see her child again.

By the time Brad Colbert finally arrives in New York, there are no United States of America anymore.

 

-

 

It turns out that November in New York is colder than October in Chicago, and colder than any month in California. More surprising is that Brad gets used to it faster than all the others.

 

The New York Children’s Welfare Association isn’t a bad place. There are five adults that take care of them, and two more that Brad has seen around the building, but doesn’t know what they are here for. Brad has a bed all to himself, even though he shares his room with seven other boys. Meals are hot and filling, and there’s a small park where they are allowed to go play whenever they want as long as there’s a grown-up with them. Mostly, Brad is bored. He misses school.

 

He’s been there for 37 days when two things happen.

 

Just before breakfast, Mr Moore, the director, asks them all to please be seated and listen to him.

 

“Boys,” he says without looking at them, “Later in the morning, we will receive a visitor. His name is Mr Smith, and he will stay with us for a week. Mr Smith is part of an organisation that takes care of young children, just like we do here.” Mr Moore pauses and smiles the same smile Mrs Landingham did in Chicago. “I want you all to be very polite to Mr Smith, you want to show him that you are happy here, and that we raise you to be fine future members of our society.”

 

There are a few scattered “Yes, Mr Moore,” when the director’s eyes finally make a sweep of his audience. Brad stays quiet. Mr Moore seems to struggle for something more to say, and eventually thanks them for their attention and leaves the room. At the adult table, not another word is uttered all through breakfast, but Brad can see them looking uneasily at each other.

 

Mr Smith arrives at 10:24. At 10:31, every occupant of the New York Children’s Welfare Association is gathered in the dining room for an introduction. Mr Smith is a tall man with dark hair and eyes that seem too big for his thin face. He’s dressed all in grey, except for a red band on his arm that has a weird cross on it. He speaks with an accent and says his name is Schmidt, not Smith. Mr Moore does not apologise.

 

Mr Schmidt asks to see every boy individually in his office, so they can get better acquainted. His smile is a lot friendlier than Mr Moore’s at breakfast.

 

Brad is summoned at 10:56 and ushered in with a welcoming hand on his shoulder and an invitation to make himself comfortable.

 

“Isn’t this Mr Moore’s office?” is what comes out of his mouth as soon as he’s seated, before he remembers the instruction to be polite. He tacks on a hurried “sir,” sits a bit straighter.

 

Mr Schmidt is all smiles, though, and doesn’t mention it. “He’s lending it to me for a little while. Your name is Brad,” he prompts, looking down at a piece of paper on the desk in front of him.

 

“Yes, sir, Brad Colbert.”

 

“And how old are you, Brad Colbert?”

 

“I turned eight in July.”

 

Mr Schmidt leans in, conspiratorially. “Did you have a big party? Cake? Presents?”

 

Brad did. His mother made a blueberry cake, and he and his dad spent the entire afternoon at the lake trying to catch fish. Except Brad never had a mother or a father and he was given up for adoption immediately after birth. He spent his entire life at the San Diego Children’s Home Association. It is very important. He has to be brave. He has to protect himself.

 

He shakes his head. “No.”

 

“Nothing?” Mr Schmidt asks gently.

 

Brad shakes his head again.

 

“Well, that’s too bad. There’s always next year, right?”

 

Brad shrugs. Mr Schmidt asks about the other boys he came with, and Brad dutifully recites their names and says they don’t talk to him much but they get along fine. Describing the journey from the west coast is a short affair, as is his opinion on life in New York.

 

“You’re bored?” Mr Schmidt repeats, looking at Brad, his eyes squinting.

 

“They don’t give us anything to do, and we don’t go to school.”

 

Mr Schmidt stares at him long enough that Brad wonders whether he said something wrong, but then he smiles again, and writes something down on the same piece of paper he read Brad’s name off of.

 

“Well, Brad,” he says when he’s done, “thank you very much for your time, I will see you at lunch.”

 

Brad nods, gets up, and leaves the office.

 

This is the first thing. The second is:

 

At 16:16, Tom dies. It started with a cough, then he’d developed a fever and had been so sick the past week he didn’t leave his bed at all. Some of the guardians and nearly all the children cry. Brad doesn’t. He didn’t even know Tom. Not really.

 

When people come to take the body, Mr Schmidt comes stand next to him.

 

“You’re not sad?”

 

“It’s cold here. Tom was very young.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

Brad frowns. Mr Schmidt is bothering him, and he wishes he would go away. He can’t tell him that, though. He has to be polite, and he has to be brave, and he has to protect himself.

 

He meets Mr Schmidt’s eyes and says, “I’m not sad.”

 

Mr Schmidt doesn’t reply but he smiles, pleased.

 

A week later, Brad gets told he’ll go to a new orphanage, a better orphanage. It’s called ‘New York City Academy for Gifted Youths’. Mr More seems displeased when he tells Brad. Brad doesn’t care. If it’s a better place, he will be safer there. He has to protect himself.

 

____________

 

 

There is a television set in Mr and Mrs Fick’s living-room. Theirs is not the only living-room in the neighbourhood to include a television set, but Nate knows it is still a bit of a big deal.

Nate is allowed one show a week. Usually, it is The Voice of Firestone Televues, because his parents like it and they choose what the family watches. Nate likes it, too, even though he doesn’t understand what the people on the screen are singing about.

 

The show has been on for less than fifteen minutes when the screen turns to white noise. It lasts about one minute, then there’s a popping sound, and the screen goes from grey, to black, to the inside of a studio where a man sits at a desk, holding a piece of paper in his hand and looking very serious. In the brief silence that follows the apparition, Nate’s mother turns to him.

 

“Nate, honey, why don’t you go to your room and grab a book?” she suggests, running a gentle hand through his hair. Nate got a haircut four days ago, his hair is shorter than he is used to, but his mother’s hand feels good. He leans into the touch.

 

“Are you going to read me a story?”

 

The man on the television starts speaking as she opens her mouth to reply, distracting her. She glances over at the screen and quickly turns back to Nate.

 

“Yes, Daddy and I are going to read you a story. Pick the one you like most, alright?”

Nate smiles and takes off for his room. He knows _exactly_ which book he’s choosing.

 

Rabbit Hill is on the nightstand, just under the small lamp that Nate’s mother turns on for story time every evening before Nate goes to bed. The book is in pristine condition, it is Nate’s most cherished possession. He grabs it carefully, mindful of its corners (corners are easily damaged), and tries to decipher the letters on the cover like he always does. The t and a he knows, because they are in his name, too. His mother showed him. He can identify the other letters as well, but he gets nothing out of trying to read them all together, except a frown and a pout. Nate holds the book tight and walks back to the living room.

 

It is October 17th, 1944, Nate Fick is five years old. He doesn’t know it yet, but while he was trying to read the title of his favourite book, the world turned upside down.

There will be be no story time tomorrow.

 

____________

 

####  **1949**

 

Nate’s uniform is disturbingly comfortable.

His mother altered it so it would fit him, which Nate thinks is a bit dumb as he will outgrow it soon enough, but she insisted. Her hands were steady taking his measurements and taking up the hem of his shorts, but there was a crease between her brows and her lips were thin and pinched; Nate didn’t voice his thoughts.

As he stands in front of the mirror, he studies his reflection. The black shorts fall just above his knees, the tan shirt tucked neatly inside. The shirt makes his shoulders look a little broader than they are, but the sleeves fall nicely. The rolled black neckerchief and woggle are tucked under the collar, and the sidecap sits perfectly on his head. Nate looks down at his toes. His white socks look so clean it’s almost strange.

When his eyes travel back up to his reflection, the boy staring back looks every inch the little soldier. Nate doesn’t like him.

It is April 24th, 1949, Nate Fick is not yet ten years old. Tomorrow, he joins the American Youth.

Nate goes downstairs. There’s a frown on his mother face, and she washes the dishes with more force than necessary.

“Mom?” Nate stands on the kitchen threshold, watching his mother wipe her hands on a piece of cloth. Nate’s been standing there for an entire minute; her hands were already clean then. She turns to him, puts the cloth down on the table.

“Yes, honey?”

“Is it that bad that I’m going to the American Youth? I could not go.”

His mother smiles, and for a second she looks so proud that Nate knows he said something right, even if he’s not sure what.

“I’m afraid not going isn’t an option,” she says as she comes closer and bends down so their eyes are level. “Can you promise me one thing, though?”

Nate is already nodding, and his mother looks proud again before her expression sobers, pride vanishing in a blink, her lips thinning into a worried purse.

“Keep your head down,” she says, running a hand through his hair. “You look just fine, nobody is going to single you out for that. And you’re smart, you’ll learn fast. Just promise me that you will not stand out. Be good, but not too good, and make sure to always come home at the end of the day. Alright?”

Nate nods again. He’s a little worried, but he promises and hugs his mother when she opens her arms to him.

**  
**

The next day, Nate stands in the central field of the Druid Hill Park training camp with five hundred other boys his age. The weather is brisk, the crowd a mix of excitement, apprehension, and annoyance. They have been waiting for ten minutes now, in rows of twenty-five, with strict instructions to maintain position. Nate’s cheeks feel cold, and he’s sure the tip of his nose is red, but he stands straight and waits.

At 3:19pm, a young man in uniform enters the field and takes position facing the front row. Immediately, all traces of annoyance and weariness dissipate, postures straightening and chins being held up high. The young man slowly starts walking up the first row, then down the second, up the third, and keeps going in this way. Nate is in the eleventh row. He stares straight ahead as the young man walks past him. Once he’s done, the young man reclaims his position facing the boys. He clicks his heels, extends his right arm, hand straightened, and shouts: “Heil!”

Five hundreds small arms spring up in response in a disorderly salute while hundreds of greetings are thrown with too much or too little enthusiasm, until the frenzy settles and the boys hold the position in silence.

Again, the young man clicks his heels, extends his arm and shouts “Heil!” This time, the answering salute is much more coordinated, and the greeting only echoes a couple of times.

Nate holds the position.

The young man nods, satisfied.

“Welcome, recruits,” he says loud enough for even the last row to hear. “Follow me.”

He takes off down the nearest path at a run. The boys follow.

They run five miles.

By the end of it, Nate’s lungs burn, his legs wobble, and the group is down to two hundred and sixty-two. When he circles back to the central field, the young man directs him to a group of six boys sitting in the grass a few meters away. Nate walks over, panting, and sits down with them. Nobody speaks, too busy catching their breaths. After a couple of minutes, another boy joins them, then another. Nate’s breathing is almost back to normal when another boy comes sit next to him. His face is very red, and he is sweating profusely, but he still musters up a friendly smile for the rest of the group. Nate is the only one to offer a smile in return.

“I’m Dave,” the boy says between two big gulps of air.

“Nate,” Nate says, wondering if Dave really should be talking when he can barely breathe. Dave obviously does not share his concern, as he opens his mouth again. He is prevented from speaking by someone clearing their throat right above them. Nate’s gaze shoots upward, back straightening instinctively. Dave copies him hurriedly. His face is still red.

Standing in front of their little group is a teenage boy. He’s older and taller than them. His blond hair is cropped short, and a pair of green eyes peer at them from under eyebrows so pale they are almost invisible. Despite the distinctive features common to almost every leader of the Reich, he doesn’t look as scary as the other blond, clear-eyed boys and men Nate sees on posters all around the city. He has a big square chin and a funny, rounded nose.

“Up,” he orders. Nate and his nine companions get up. He observes them for a second before saying, “From this moment on, I am your troop leader. My name is Michael, and when I ask you something, you do not say Yes, Michael, or No, Michael, you say Yes, sir, and Yes, sir. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys reply in unison.

Michael nods. “Good. We’re going to run another mile.” And he takes off at a light jog.

While they run, Nate looks around to see the other groups in the middle of their own fitness activities. He finds a moment to be glad he isn’t part of the group whose leader is making them do jumping jacks.

Michael leads them to a more secluded corner of the park and lets them lie down after the additional mile. Nate is breathing hard, throat parched, his legs are killing him and his heart is beating so hard he can see the skin of his chest fluttering with each beat, but compared to the rest of the troop he isn’t doing too badly. Dave is so red Nate is afraid he is going to pass out. Nate doesn’t know what happens if you fail on your first day of American Youth, but he has a feeling it’s not good. He takes a deep breath.

Michael observes them while they recover, expression neutral but eyes sharp. His uniform is the same as Nate’s, except for a piece of white cloth sewn high onto his left sleeve. On the cloth is the familiar black bolt, symbol of the various Youth organisations that were imported from Germany after the war. Nate learnt about them in school.

Michael slips a piece of paper out of the pocket of his shorts. “Okay, I’ll need you to say your name one by one, so that I can put you on my list.”

The tallest boy of the group immediately springs to his feet with a “William Copeland, sir.” Mike looks at him and nods.

The boy next to Nate stands up, extends his right arm in a salute. “John Dubose, sir!” Michael stares at him, but doesn’t offer either congratulation or reprimand.

Nate gets to his feet, keeps his arms at his sides, stares straight ahead, and says: “Nathaniel Fick, sir.” Mike nods and makes a note.

“Peter Fleghart.”

“Arthur Glass.”

“Dwight Jones.”

“Jeremy Kennedy.”

“Chris Lachlan.”

“Richard Larson.”

Finally, Dave, still wheezing, springs to his feet with more enthusiasm than coordination, extends his right arm, hand straight, and shouts “Dave McGraw, sir!”

Nate cannot tell if it is eagerness that is making his face shine so much or if it’s just because he is still red and sweaty. He feels a little bad for Dave. Michael folds the sheet back in his shorts and nods at them.

“You’re all brothers now, you’re a unit. You must never forget it. You will learn together, grow together, live together. More importantly, you will learn to serve the Reich. Everything you do from now on must be for the good of the Reich. You are to serve the Reich, not the other way around. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Now,” Michael continues as he gestures for them to sit down again, “let’s have a brief history lesson.”

The brief history lesson turns out to be an entire hour on how and why Germany was always going to win the war, despite what their parents may have told them, and how and why the United States will naturally bow to the Reich and adopt its ideology. It makes Nate uneasy but he listens attentively. He doesn’t say a word. Keep your head down, his mother said.

Michael speaks of how the presence of the Reich has, does, and will continue to improve the country, and all Nate can think of is how miserable everyone he knows is. In fact, he doesn’t have any memory of a time people were happy. Michael’s voice is calm, his tone detached and weirdly soothing; nothing like the impassioned speech Nate was dreading. He has seen enough impassioned speeches on the television to know that he does not like them. Michael doesn’t sound like that at all. It’s a small comfort, but he’ll take it.

At 18:21, after more history, in-depth introductions, and a summary of what being in the American Youth entails, Michael gives each of them a magazine.

“This is your welcome gift, you’ve earned it. I expect even better things from you in the future. Don’t disappoint me.” He looks at them in turns, and nods once. “See you tomorrow, boys.”

Nate glances down at the cover of the magazine. _Der Pimpf, America_ is written at the top in ancient looking letters. Below, a man and a smiling young boy, both in uniform, stand in front of the Statue of Liberty with their right arms extended in a Hitler salute. Nate folds the magazine, cover inward to not have to see it again.

When he glances back up, Michael is studying him. Nate’s gut clench, suddenly nervous. Was that bad? Should he have pretended to be more interested in the magazine? Should he have started reading it? That’s what Dwight is doing. Nate stands there, feeling caught out, his eyes meeting Michael’s straight on for the first time. Michael raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Nathaniel,” he says slowly.

Nate nods, mumbles a “yes, sir” and hurries away.

-

Nate has been in the American Youth for over two years when his twelfth birthday rolls around. It falls on a Friday, and Michael waits until they’re about to leave to mention it.

“Alright, boys,” he says in his usual end-of-day drawl, “now go home, pack a bag, and be back here in an hour. We’re going away for the weekend. Happy birthday, Nate.” He turns to Nate with a smile that Nate can’t help but return before he realises it means he won’t celebrate his birthday with his parents. As if reading his mind, Michael pats his shoulder, and says, “You’re a man now. Birthdays don’t mean anything to the Reich.”

The rest of their little troop is delighted, taking off as soon as Michael nods at them. Nate lingers, even though he knows he can’t voice any objection. Michael watches him wordlessly, waiting him out. Sometimes, Nate feels like Michael knows everything he is thinking. He’s not sure yet whether he’s comfortable with it or not. Once again proving his theory, Michael lowers his head to catch Nate’s eyes. “The Reich takes precedence over family, Nate. You know that.”

It’s gentle, a touch of understanding in Michael’s voice that Nate didn’t want to hope for. He nods. He does know that. “Go home,” Michael continues. “Say goodbye to your parents, pack your bag. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Nate leaves and does as he’s told.

The camping ground isn’t far, just outside the city. Michael drives them there in a minivan. Everyone’s very impressed.

“You can drive?” Peter asks, fascinated. “But you’re not sixteen yet!”

Michael grins. “Perks of being a troop leader to you lot. The Hitler Youth offers driving lessons at fourteen, licence at fifteen. The more skills you have, the better. Why wait?”

They all nod, already picturing themselves at the wheel of the family car.

“My cousin in New York is only thirteen but he’s started driving,” Dwight pipes up from the seat behind Michael.

“Really?” Michael asks, dubious.

“He’s not in the regular Hitler Youth, though,” Dwight says proudly. “He attends the New York Adolf Hitler School.”

Nate is sitting in the front passenger seat next to Michael, so he’s the only one who sees Michael’s lips curl in disgust. It’s gone in a flash, the older boy’s expression as placid as ever in the time it takes Nate to blink. Nate’s guts clench, a strange sort of apprehension seizing him, but he doesn’t say anything.

“What’s so special about it?” Richard asks. Dwight shoots him a disdainful look.

“It’s where you go when you’re the best. Brad Colbert goes there.”

“Who’s Brad Colbert?” comes Jeremy’s voice from the back of the van.

Behind them, Dwight gasps, horrified. “How can you not know who Brad Colbert is? He was in Der Pimpf, you moron!”

“Boys!” Michael snaps, sharper than the low but firm reprimand the boys are used to. The van immediately goes quiet.

**  
**

It’s two hours before dark when they reach their camping ground. Michael shows them how to set up the tent that will be their home for the next two days and nights. The boys get to it with enthusiasm, five months of working together every day having turned them into an efficient unit. With their lodgings taken care of, Michael sends them in pairs to gather firewood. Nate goes off with Arthur, ignoring Dave’s hopeful look.

Arthur is the quietest of the troop. Nate is sure that his mother calls him sweetheart and still leaves a glass of warm milk on his nightstand before bed. Hell, sometimes _Nate_ wants to offer him warm milk. He would be worried about him, except Arthur is the best athlete out of all the new recruits, and it makes up for his gentle disposition. They roam the woods in silence, trying not to trip over branches in the fading sunlight and giggling at each other when they trip anyway.

They’re the third pair back at the tent, arms full of branches and other sticks that they drop on the pile next to the makeshift fire pit.

“I want everyone here so you can try to light the fire yourselves,” Michael replies when Arthur asks what they’re waiting for. Richard makes a noise.

“We have matches, how hard can it be?”

All in all, it takes them ten minutes to realize that you cannot just hold a branch above your flame and expect it to suddenly blaze like a torch. Michael offers absolutely no help, electing instead to tower over them looking highly entertained. Dwight and Peter almost get into a fight over whose method is most likely to succeed, and in the end it’s Anthony who saves them all by building a fire starting bow and using dry tinder while everyone else is wasting matches.

“Excellent work, recruit,” Michael congratulates him as he pats his shoulder. “Show them how you did it. You need to know how to do this, boys. Being able to light a fire can make the difference between surviving the night and the next team finding you cold in the morning, so pay attention.”

Anthony is glowing with pride as he shows the troop how to select the best pieces of wood to make a fire starting bow, how to make tinder, and how to use the bow. Nate is the first to spark a flame, and Michael nods approvingly, even spares a smile. Nate beams back. This is fun. Maybe spending a birthday away from his parents won’t be that bad.

Dinner takes care of Nate’s burgeoning optimism. Michael tosses five dead rabbits at their feet, and announces: “You’re going to learn how to field dress a rabbit.”

Arthur doesn’t throw up, but it’s a close thing. Even Anthony looks squeamish as Michael pulls the pelt off the animal, cuts it, and starts to remove its organs.

“You have to be careful when removing the urine sac. Don’t want it to burst and spill piss all over your meat,” Mike explains while he pinches the little yellow balloon right where it connects to the carcass, and carefully pulls it away. “Same thing with the liver, you have to be careful,” he continues. “Any spots on the liver could be a sign of a serious disease, and that means meat you don’t want to eat.” The boys all nod, mouths shut tight. Michael’s lips curl up in an amused smirk.

Cleaning, butchering, and preparing the rabbit seems strangely easier after that, the pieces looking more like familiar food and less like an innocent bunny.

When Michael’s rabbit is roasting, he gestures at the other four and says, “You turn, now.”

Nate’s entire body freezes, revulsion seizes him from his toes to the very last hair on his head. He’s not sure he’s even hungry after what he just witnessed. In the light of the fire, Michael’s expression softens and he adds in a gentle voice, “I’ll help you, come on, boys.”

Nate doesn’t remember what the rabbit tasted like.

Michael has brought cake, to “properly celebrate your becoming a man” he announces with a smile for Nate that would be proud if Nate could tear his eyes away from the remains of the last rabbit to notice. He doesn’t remember what the cake tasted like, either.

He remembers when they’re about to enter the tent for the night and Michael grabs his shoulder. Michael’s hold is gentle, his hand warm and comforting. He says in a low voice, “You’re doing fine, Nate. It’s going to be fine.”

Nate thinks about Michael’s face in the van when Dwight talked about his cousin. He stares at the troop leader, trying to decide if it meant anything. Michael waits him out, and finally, finally nods, just once. Nate’s breath catches, and he nods back, just once. Michael squeezes his shoulder, and shoves him toward the tent.

“Off to bed, now, kiddo.”

Nate sleeps the whole night through.

**  
**

He sticks close to Michael for the rest of the weekend. He doesn’t mean to, and it isn’t bad enough that Michael tells him off for it, but enough that he notices.

“Nate.”

Nate finishes tying his shoelace and glares up at Michael. Michael stares back until Nate sighs and drops his head.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Michael says.

It’s Sunday, they’re packing up and getting ready to leave. Dwight has been particularly irritating the past two days, roping John and Peter in his little crusade against all things not “worthy of the Reich.” Nate would like to know what he knows about the Reich to declare himself judge of what is and isn’t worthy of it. So far, all Nate has gathered is that to be considered acceptable you have to be blond, blue-eyed, and an arrogant pain in the ass. Dwight keeps bringing up that Colbert boy as an example, and at this point Nate doesn’t know which one of the two he hates more, but he’d be willing to punch this Colbert in the face if it got Dwight to shut up.

“I’m not worried for me,” Nate replies, trying to curb his anger. It’s not Michael he’s mad at.

“All the more reason to not let it get to you,” Michael says, an odd look on his face, like he can’t decided whether he means it or not.

Nate doesn’t know what to say to that, so he casts another glance at Michael and goes to fetch his bag. He cannot wait to be home.

____________

 

 

 

 

 

 

> **Der Pimpf America, May 1949, issue n°52**
> 
> **The Faith of the Youth is the Strength of the Country**
> 
> The Great War showed the World the superiority of the Aryan race. The lazy capitalist American has shown to be no adversary for the noble German. But youth of America, don’t despair. Your time has come.
> 
> The war has not ignored the youth - in fact, it was on the very shoulders of the youngest that the heaviest burden was set. It was the young, the fearless, the brave that brought victory to the Reich. When the motherland called for its youth to do their part, they responded. They made the Reich proud.
> 
> And now, the Reich is calling for the American youth to do their part too. Shoulder to shoulder with Germany’s best, the American youth now has a chance to rise to its full potential. The American Youth gives everybody a chance to live up to their dreams, to make their parents proud, to stand in line with the finest of their Nation to carry the Flag like so many before them have.
> 
> The American Youth is an organization that brings out the best, the brightest, the proudest. An entire new generation will learn how to hunt, strive and prosper in all conditions. Through discipline and determination come strength, honor, and loyalty.
> 
> The model of the Hitler Youth has done wonders for the children of America - swift like a greyhound, hard like Krupp steel, tough like leather! Camaraderie, a sense of purpose, and a promising future awaits the young boys and girls of The Greater Reich who join the American Youth every year. Education and training combine to explore their abilities and push their limits, to make them great leaders, and give them the opportunity to rise.
> 
> And the opportunity is given to all, no matter their circumstances, no matter their parents’ wealth. In fact, it is exactly the poor, the downtrodden that the American Youth is offering a chance to.
> 
> Look no further than the winner of this year’s American Youth Rankings. Bradley Colbert was born an orphan, but the American Youth has made him into a model athlete, an inspiring pupil and one of the brightest stars of his generation.
> 
> “The training is hard, but fair.” Colbert says. “If you cannot stand the training, you are not worthy of the Reich. All for the Reich.”
> 
> This is what the American Youth makes of this generation - the best they can be and the citizens the Reich deserves.

 

____________

 

####  **1951**

  
Nate doesn’t see it. He’s paired with Jeremy and they don’t finish the race until after it’s happened. Michael isn’t there to congratulate them. No one is. Out of the five troops gathered for the race, Nate can only spot one boy sitting a dozen meters away, completely still.

 

“What’s going on, where is everyone?” asks Jeremy, reddish brows furrowing into a frown.

 

Nate shrugs, looking around, until a distant shout catches their attention and they turn toward the sound, instantly alert.

 

Jeremy nudges Nate, mumbles “Come on,” and heads in the direction of the shout. Nate follows.

 

There’s a large group of people gathered about three hundred meters from the arrival line. Nate spots Dave and Chris at the edge of the crowd, and the look of shock on their faces makes Nate walk faster, heartbeat picking up.

 

“What’s going on?” Jeremy asks as soon as they’re within earshot, craning his neck to try and see past the people to what they’re surrounding.

 

Dave stares at him, eyes wide and panicked. His mouth opens but no words come out. It’s Chris who answers. His eyes are red, his jaw set, and his voice sounds very small.

 

“Arthur drowned.”

 

Nate’s head turns so fast his neck crack. “What?” he says, hollow.

 

Chris swallows, blinking hard. “We were two minutes behind them, and there’s the section in the river, you know? And there’s this step, and--” Chris stops, takes a deep breath. It comes out in a shaky exhale. “I don’t know if he slipped, or if the water kept dragging him back down, it makes this sort of constant rolling wave like a washing machine, you know.” He stops again.

 

Nate stands frozen, staring at him in horror. He knows exactly what Chris is talking about. This isn’t the first time they’ve had to train in water, but Nate still gets scared. Two years in the American Youth haven’t beaten his fear of drowning. When Michael described the course to the them, he felt this same spike of terror at the thought of being submerged in uncontrolled water as he does every time he knows he will have to swim.

 

Nate’s knees wobble. Next to him, Jeremy looks like someone punched him in the gut.

 

“Who was he with?” he asks, voice barely steadier than Chris’s.

 

At this, Chris scoffs, the shock on his face morphing into an ugly snarl. “Dwight.”

 

Nate is moving before he consciously registers the name, Jeremy on his heels. The crowd doesn’t part for them but nobody shoves them aside either as they march to the center of the commotion until Nate catches sight of Michael about twenty meters away. Nate hastens his pace and is about to call out when Dwight’s voice rings, loud and clear for everyone to hear.

 

“I did nothing wrong!” he half-shouts, indignant. “Arthur was weak! If you can’t handle the training, you’re not fit to be a soldier! Better he died now than later when he could have dragged one of us down with him!”

 

The words hit him like a blast wave, slowing him down, stealing the air right from his lungs. His next breath comes out in a shaky, furious growl. His body is shaking from the need to fight, his mind roaring and screaming that this is wrong, this is wrong, everything here is wrong. All around them are the other troops and troop leaders who have already finished the race. Some the same age as Nate, some older. On each troop leader’s arm is the cloth bearing the symbol of the American Youth. A handful of them are carrying the Youth flag, the black swastika a stark contrast against its red background. Not one of them look offended, or even disturbed by what is happening. A few nodded their heads at Dwight’s outburst.

 

And Nate suddenly understands, in a way he never did before. The blood in his veins grows cold as the fight leaves him and realisation takes its place. Slowly, the crowd part and Michael is walking toward them, Dwight in tow. Michael’s face is entirely devoid of expression, but Dwight looks proud, brimming with determination and self-righteousness. Nate clamps his lips shut, sure that if he doesn’t he’ll vomit.

 

As he passes by, Michael shoots them a quick look and nods at Jeremy. “We’ll talk later, boys,” he says tightly without halting his steps. Dwight offers them a smug smile. On the other end of the path through the crowd, far but not far enough, Arthur’s body lies on the ground.

 

Nate stares, transfixed, as the world seems to pause for a moment and his mind empties of all but a dripping horror mixed with fascination. Should he already be so pale? It can’t have been that long. He’s so still. It’s funny how people use the word sleeping when they mean dead, because even from where he’s standing, Nate can see that Arthur isn’t sleeping. The rise and fall of a breathing chest is so inconspicuous a movement until it’s not there anymore, its absence turning a peaceful image into a chilling reality.

 

Nate turns away and slowly walks back to their group.

 

Michael doesn’t come back to collect them. Eventually, an older troop leader tells them to go home and come back tomorrow, same time and place as usual. They go.

 

Nate doesn’t discuss what he does in the American Youth with his parents, except on rare occasions when Michael organised a particularly fun activity. He doesn’t talk about the lessons, the marching, the monthly meetings. He certainly doesn’t plan to reveal what happened to Arthur, but one look at his mother’s face when he comes home tells him that someone else must have. The door isn’t closed behind him that he is folded into an embrace he would find embarrassing on any other day. Today, he lets her rock him gently into her arms, stroking his hair over and over again.

 

“You came home,” she breathes against his temple and presses a kiss there.

 

Nate swallows hard. “I promised.”

 

His father hugs him next, squeezes his shoulders tight and holds him to his chest with a hand around the nape of his neck for a long time before releasing him. Nate takes a step back, his body starts to move towards the stairs on autopilot. He is home. He needs to go to his room and change.

 

“He drowned,” he blurts out instead, and notices that he’s shaking only after the words are out. His parents exchange a quick look, eyes filled with horror. Nate’s cheeks feel damp.

 

“It wasn’t you,” his mother hurries to say, low and trembling. “It wasn’t you, honey.”

 

“Does that make it better?” Nate snaps back in a surge of anger that leaves him as quickly as it came. He rubs at his eyes to wipe away the wetness there and looks up at his parents. His voice is small and imploring when he repeats, “Does it?”

 

His mother looks pained, eyebrows drawn, mouth pinched in a thin line as she avoids his gaze. His father huffs, shaking his head once before passing a hand over his mouth. His eyes are wide and helpless, but he doesn’t flinch from Nate’s expectant look.

 

The silence stretches out, before his father eventually says, “No, Nate.” At the words, Nate’s mother’s head swivels sharply but despite her furious glare she doesn’t contradict him. “No, it doesn’t.”

 

They stand there, not looking at each other, pinned down by the weight of the statement. Nate feels empty.

 

“I’m going to go change,” he says at last, barely loud enough, and makes his way to the stairs, his steps soundless on the carpet.

 

The numbness keeping his anger from exploding lasts until he is unbuttoning his shirt. As he stands there, in his underwear and undershirt, feet bare, his trembling fingers slipping again and again, it all comes back. Nate lets out a sob and starts tearing at the fabric, foregoing the buttons to pull at his shirt until it stretches and finally breaks. He throws the garment away from him as soon as his arms are free, chest heaving.

 

He never wants to wear the damn thing ever again. He never wants to be part of them, to parade and pretend and salute every day like a good little soldier. He picks up the shirt, the handkerchief, the shorts, and rips into them with his short blunt nails and shaking hands. His throat hurts, his lashes are wet with tears, and he wipes his nose on a discarded sock but he doesn’t stop until every single piece of the uniform has suffered from his rage. The shorts might very well be unsalvageable. For all the vindictive satisfaction he finds in that, Nate doesn’t feel any better. If anything, he feels foolish. What good are torn shorts going to do? Arthur is dead.

 

Arthur is dead.

 

Nate tucks himself between his bed and the wall, sits with his knees to his chest, and cries. He stays there after the tears have stopped and dried, hugs himself and stares at nothing, feels nothing, until there’s a knock on his door.

 

“Nate.” Even muffled through the door, there’s no mistaking the concern in Nate’s father voice. “Can I come in?”

 

Nate doesn’t feel like speaking, but getting up to open the door is even less appealing. He clears his throat, sniffles, and forces a quiet “Yeah.”

 

His father pushes the door open and steps inside without a word. His eyes find Nate immediately and he sighs, but before he can move closer he spots the pieces of clothing on the floor. He freezes as he takes in the damage, the lines around his eyes suddenly going tight, his lips pressed in a thin line.

 

“Nate,” he repeats, the concern mixing with fear.

 

“I’m not wearing it again,” Nate replies, following his father’s cautious gaze to the remains of his uniform.

 

“You have to.”

 

“They killed Arthur,” Nate snarls.

 

“No, they didn’t!” his father shouts, taking them both by surprise. Nate’s head snaps up, he stares at his father in shock. He can’t remember the last time his father raised his voice, never mind at Nate. Mr Fick closes his eyes, passes hand over his face, before crouching in front of Nate to hold his gaze.

 

“What happened to Arthur was an accident,” he says, low but firm. When Nate opens his mouth to protest, he holds up a hand. “It was, and you know it. What will happen to you, if you don’t go back, won’t be.” His tone is tightly controlled but his eyes are wide, and, Nate realizes, pleading. His father’s terrified. He’s not lecturing Nate. He’s begging him. “Perhaps it will look like one, there will be no way to tell. You don’t know what it was like when they first got here. You think everyone agreed? You think nobody stood up and protested? Resisted?”

 

Nate doesn’t know. The urgency in his father’s voice unsettles him, but he’s twelve and his friend just died. He scoffs, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t drop his eyes.  They never talked about this, and Nate is not sure he wants to now.

 

“Nate,” his father hisses as he grabs his arm and shakes him once. “You have to go back, and you have to behave. Your mom will fix your uniform the best she can, you can say you tripped or got it caught on something, but _you have to go back_.”

 

“Why? Because it’s safer?” Nate shoots back.

 

“Yes!” His father pauses, shakes his head with a derisive scoff, conscious of the twisted irony of the situation. His grip on Nate’s arm loosens. “Nowhere is safe anymore, but if you keep your head down, don’t make any waves, you’ll slip through. That’s all I’m asking you. Your mother and I can’t lose you.”

 

Nate doesn’t reply. His father sighs, but lets him go. He gathers the pieces of Nate’s uniform and picks them up the floor.

 

“I’m going to bring this to your mother. You will come down for dinner later, and we will talk about this one more time. Am I making myself clear?”

 

Nate remains mulishly silent, but eventually nods. His father leaves without another word. Nate stays curled up next to the bed, listless, the distress in his father’s words slowly sinking in. His head is a tangled mess so full of conflicting thoughts and emotions that he doesn’t know where to begin to try and sort out his feelings. One thing keeps coming back, though, niggling at him, growing more insistent every time it comes up until it spurs Nate into action, gets him up and over to his desk. There’s a copy of Der Pimpf lying there. Nate picks it up, disgust and apprehension tugging his features down into a frown.

 

It’s there, at the bottom left of page 23, a small picture next to it. Dwight’s exact words. The quote doesn’t stand out that much, the font only marginally bigger than the text of the article it accompanies, but the name attached to it gives it all the influence it needs.

 

 

 

> _“If you can’t handle the training, you’re not fit to be a soldier.”_
> 
> Brad Colbert, star student of the New York Adolf Hitler School shows us what it’s like to be a soldier! Work hard. Train harder. Make your country proud.

 

Something change in Nate as he reads the sentence a second time, a third time. The softness that allowed him to ignore what the afternoons with Michael and the troop mean shifts and hardens, turns into something inflexible and uncompromising.

 

He will go back, if it keeps him alive. He will put the uniform back on and perform the tasks required of him until he can leave the Youth behind. In exchange, Nate decides, staring down at the face on the page, one day, he will kill Brad Colbert.

 

That night, in his bed, the reaction of the adults comes back to Nate. Nobody seemed particularly upset that Arthur got killed. Nobody cared. Not even Michael, it seems. Nate frowns. He thought Michael was different, that he cared about them. But he still wears the same uniform as Nate, serves as their group leader. Doesn’t that make Mike one of them?

 

Nate shifts, uneasily. Michael might be one of them, but that doesn’t mean he’s all bad. Nate remembers the gentleness of Michael’s voice. Other group leaders like to yell at their pupils, but Michael never raises his voice unless he has to.

 

And yet, he’s still one of them. Nate swallows. He thought Michael was his friend.

 

-

 

“Nate. A word.”

 

Nate feels suddenly weightless, like all his organs have gone, leaving him empty inside but for his frantically beating heart. They are packing up to leave after their session, ready to go home. Jeremy stops as well, shoots Nate a questioning look. Nate shakes his head. _Go on, I’ll catch up,_ he doesn’t say. Jeremy goes. He’s biting his lip again.

 

Nate turns around in a daze, each step closer to Michael tethering him more until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to dissolve and float away. Distantly, he remembers promising his mother that he would always come home and wonders if today is the day he breaks his promise. He swallows.

 

“What happened to your uniform?” There is no easing Nate into the conversation. The question is tossed at his feet, barring his way just as effectively as Michael’s body before him.

 

“I tripped.” Nate just lets it out, doesn’t even try to make it sound convincing.

 

“Yeah?” and there’s Michael’s accent slipping back in, just a hint of it. “Was that before or after you decided to pick up a pair of scissors and slash the thing?”

 

Nate says nothing, to make his point as much as to avoid lying. Michael watches him for a minute before nodding, accepting the non-answer for what it is.

 

“What did you mean to accomplish, then?” Michael asks, patient and reasonable, a teacher trying to understand a confused pupil. “You’re a smart kid, so I’m assuming there was a conscious purpose behind this and that it wasn’t some mindless tantrum. I can’t have mindless tantrums, Nate, you know that.”

 

Shame creeps up Nate’s neck and cheeks as he balls his fists. It might have been a mindless tantrum but it doesn’t mean he was _wrong_.

 

“Are we not allowed to be upset when a friend dies? I thought young lives were important. Should I have not cared? Should I have just accepted it?” Nate is too scared to spit the words with as much strength as he means to, but he refuses to look away as he says them despite the adrenaline running through his veins, making him shiver.

 

Michael lifts his chin, eyes sharp under his pale eyebrows as they rest on Nate, assessing. Where Nate expects disdain, a sneer and a cold gaze, the set of Mike’s mouth is soft, full lips in a flat, neutral line, his hands hang loose at his side. He isn’t angry. He doesn’t even appear disappointed. Nate doesn’t know what to make of it.

 

“Sit down, Nate,” Michael finally says, doing so himself and looking at Nate expectantly until Nate obeys.

 

“I’m from Texas,” Michael continues, in a baffling non sequitur that has Nate scrambling to rewind the conversation in his head to check if he missed something. “My mother and I moved here when I was twelve. Your age.”

 

The field is empty around them. Even if the wind carried Michael’s voice farther than their little circle of two, there would be no one to hear it.

 

“That was one of the first policies after the surrender: move military families here and there and offer them housing and employment in the service of the Reich. You scatter them, give them a roof, and keep them busy. With their husbands dead and their country taken over by people who fear nothing, not many widows would refuse the deal to risk imprisonment – or execution – instead.”

 

Nate’s breathing has gone shallow. He’s staring at Michael, can’t make himself not. Michael looks back, placid, like his words aren’t making Nate’s pulse race and his skin break out in goosebumps.

 

“Being the enemy’s son is okay as long as you’re useful,” Michael continues, unbothered by Nate’s stunned silence. “There were tests. Reading and writing, then physical. Then hand to hand. Then guns. This is where being the son of a Texan Marine Gunnery Sergeant comes in handy. Twelve years old and I was better at handling guns than most of the guys supervising the tests. I was made troop leader the same day. I was given a brand new arm band, a shiny pin, and their congratulations.”

 

Nate is both riveted and confused. What is Michael’s point? His dad is – _was_ – a Marine who fought _against_ the Reich and here he is, telling Nate that he just…switched sides when the wind changed and that it’s okay? Something must show on his face, because Michael’s attention sharpen at once, casual demeanor turning pointed and serious in a blink. He leans in, and his voice is nowhere near as languid when he speaks.

 

“I get five extra rations for every week I am here. I get priority hospital care, minimally restricted access to interstate transport, unrestricted transport within the entire Baltimore area. And more than that,” Michael whispers, “I get them to forget about me.”

 

 _Don’t make waves. Blend in._ Nate sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening.

 

“You’re _twelve_ , Nate. Of course you should care, of course you should not accept it. I didn’t. I still don’t. But this?” Michael nods at Nate’s patched-up uniform. “Is the stupidest fucking thing you could have done. Do you understand?”

 

And despite the storm in his brain and the millions things he wants to ask, Nate’s mouth remains closed. He nods, dumbly, because suddenly he does understand. And he is terrified, and elated, and so lost.

 

“You want to take a stand? Stay. Stay and learn as much as you can. Fool them, make them take you for granted, dismiss you so that they’ll never know what hits them when you’re ready. You’re a smart kid, but still a kid. You want to do something that matters now? Give yourself time and the tools to become a man they can fear.”

 

Before this moment, Nate wouldn’t have been able to tell what he was looking for every time he looked into someone’s eyes. Classmates, passers-by, his parents, it didn’t matter. He looked and looked and found nothing. He knows now. The implacable determination set deep in Michael’s ferocious gaze, the certainty that all this waiting and hiding and pretending isn’t in vain, isn’t even merely to save himself but to live long enough to reach the right moment, the moment when he will _act_. The air rushes out of Nate’s lungs, leaves him shuddering, his heartbeat fast as a rabbit’s. His head spins.

 

He can’t think of anything to say.

 

After a moment, Michael rises to his feet and holds his hand out for Nate to take. Nate does. Standing in front of his troop leader, he forgets to let go. Michael smiles, his entire face softening for a second, before he squeezes Nate’s hand in one solid handshake.

 

“Keep your head down. Learn. Be smart. And call me Mike.”

 

Nate squeezes back, finally finds his voice. His lips stretch in a wavering smile, so many words fighting to tumble out of his mouth, and he says, “Okay.”

 

________________

 

####  **1954**

 

 

 

> **W** **ILL AND** **P** **OWER PRESENTS: “Talking to…”**
> 
> _Talking to is a weekly series of interviews with the best and most promising members of the Hitler Youth, presented by Will and Power magazine._
> 
> **BRAD COLBERT WANTS TO BE MORE THAN A PRETTY FACE**
> 
> _Interview by Blake Rogan        September 3, 1954_
> 
> **Q: Five years ago, you had just joined the New York Adolf Hitler School and were listed as a Wild Card Entry at the Panamerican Youth Games. Since then, you won three of the five annual games in your age group, you managed to snatch the overall win for the last two consecutive years and it’s just been announced that you will join the SS as their youngest recruit yet. How has life changed in those five years?**
> 
> A: Not much. I still get up in the morning and try to give my best. That’s all what this is about.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: But you’re still a teenager. How do you balance being 18 and having this career and public interest in your person?**
> 
> A:  You have to try to be as honest with yourself as you possibly can be. You have to accept that there are certain things you cannot do, and others that you shouldn’t do. But then, you get a lot back, so it all evens out.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: What’s one of the things you miss most about being a normal 18-year-old?**
> 
> A: (laughs) Drinking beer, I guess. My nutritionist doesn’t allow that.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: How do your parents feel about your success and rising stardom?**
> 
> A: I  was raised by the Reich, and I aim to please the motherland and make her proud.
> 
> _(N.B. Brad Colbert was raised in the San Diego Children’s home association and became a warden of the New York Children’s Welfare Association at the age of eight. His success is  proof of the excellent orphanage system of the Greater Reich.)_
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: After phasing out of the New York Adolf Hitler School, you are now entering a new stage in your life. The SS has offered you to join them in one of their elite units, provided you show the same excellence during your time in the American Order Castle as you have so far. How did you decide that this was the career you wanted to follow?**
> 
> A: I’ve been in contact with the guys from the SS for a while now. We met at the Panamerican Games in 1951 and never really lost contact. Last year, they invited me to do a couple of test runs with them, which seemed to have gone well, because I was invited back for more tests. Eventually, they asked me to join them. It’s not an invitation you turn down. It’s a huge honor for me. I always wanted to be part of something bigger than myself and work for the greater good, so this is the right way for me.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: Is this the career you always dreamed about having?**
> 
> A: I didn’t have a set vision. But I’ll be honest, I set the bar very high for myself. I want to be the best, and I want to have the greatest impact. And I think the SS is the right place for me, absolutely.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: No worries about being not good enough?**
> 
> A: No, none at all.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: I spoke to a couple of the guys you train with, and one of them said that you “dislike jokey-jokes, or any attempt at camaraderie”. Instead, you “invest all your energy in deeply boneheaded convictions and prefer to keep to yourself.”**
> 
> A: “Boneheaded conviction” will be on my tombstone, I think.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: Really? So you agree?**
> 
> A: Yeah, I mean… (thinks for a minute). Everyone in this school is highly competent. I respect the guys for what they do, but I would never socialize with them if we weren’t in the same training group. And as for my convictions… I believe you have to work on yourself constantly, improve yourself, become a better person, and that’s, I think, what they were trying to say. If I have an hour to myself, I’ll try to do research, or go for a run. There’s just so much to learn, and I want to be on top of it all. If that makes me less fun, I’ll live with that.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: Well, it seems like you’re popular enough. Are you familiar with the Brad Colbert “fangirls”, as they call themselves?**
> 
> A: I’ve heard of them, yes.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: What do you think about them? Some of them tried to break into the hotel you were staying at during the games. One even went through the trash in the hope to find some of your discarded clothes. There’s a vendor for Brad Colbert Cardboard Cutouts. How does that make you feel?**
> 
> A: (shifts in his seat). Well. (Pauses.)  This is certainly not something I ever saw coming.
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: But you are 6’4, and are a model of Aryan handsomeness. Clearly, this can’t come as any surprise.**
> 
> A: I don’t mean to be rude here, but I am an accomplished athlete about to start a military career. Do you have any serious questions?
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: I can defend this as a serious question. You are a person of public interest now and –**
> 
> A: (interrupts) I try to focus on the issues at hand, and this isn’t one of them. Does that answer your question?
> 
>  
> 
> **Q: I think so. Okay. You recently had your 18** **th** **birthday. What was the best present you got?**
> 
> A: A bike. I bought it myself. I’ve been wanting one ever since I can remember, and I haven’t had the time yet, but I cannot wait to take it for a spin.
> 
>  
> 
> Interview has been condensed and edited.
> 
>  
> 
> _Brad Colbert is set to enrol in the American Order Castle at the end of the month, a school reserved for the very best graduates of the Adolf Hitler Schools. The Order Castles take their pupils to the limits of their physical endurance, and graduates can expect to attain a high position in the army or, as Colbert has already been offered, the SS._

 

________________

 

When Nate opens the back door to his parent's house, the sound of Sinatra greets him. He looks in the kitchen - his mom is cooking, Chicken Alfredo, judging by the smell.

He gives her a smile and walks towards the dining room where his dad is setting the table.

 

Quietly, so his mom can’t hear him, Nate asks: "Dad, what's wrong?"

 

His dad continues to lay out cutlery. The good cutlery, Nate notices absent-mindedly and wonders if this is relevant in any way.  

 

"What makes you think something's wrong?" His dad replies, not looking at him, but instead getting the plates.

 

Nate follows him around the table. "Sinatra?" He motions towards the kitchen, where he can hear his mom humming along to “over the rainbow”, her voice perfectly harmonizing with the record.

 

His dad takes the plates and returns to the table, still not looking at Nate. Instead, he huffs. "What do you mean?"

 

Annoyed, Nate takes the plates out of his father's hands and puts them on the table. "Sinatra, dad. Mom only listens to Sinatra when she's upset."

 

Finally, his dad looks at him. When he speaks, his voice is solemn and quiet.  "They came for Mr Dawson."

 

Nate feels a deep sense of dread settling in his stomach. "The guy from Mom's book club?"

 

His dad nods. "Came for him this afternoon. Took him away."  

 

"But what for?" Nate can’t understand it. It's not the first time this has happened - in fact, arrests have been speeding up the last couple of months, everybody knows that. Nobody brings it up.

The process is always the same - the police comes, takes people away, and you never hear from them again. In the beginning, charges were still being brought to court. Now they have even stopped doing that. People who are arrested simply disappear, never to be heard from again. Nobody bothers to inquire their fate. It’s too obvious. And perhaps it’s easier not to know for certain.

 

Still, their neighbourhood had still been relatively safe from all that. Until now.

 

The reply of his father brings Nate back to the present. "As if they needed a reason to arrest you. Word is his brother ratted him out for possession of enemy propaganda."

 

Nate shakes his head. Enemy propaganda could be anything from a banned book to a letter that someone wrote you. Not that it mattered. Mr Dawson was gone for good.

 

A sense of urgency floods him. He needs to do something. He needs to speak to Mike.

 

"Hey. Where do you think you're going?" His dad holds him by the arm.

 

"To Mike’s."

 

Nate's dad plants himself in his path. "Nate, promise me you're not bringing this up with Mike. Mike's a great guy, but..." His voice trails off, but Nate has heard enough.

 

“But what, dad? He's gonna sell me out?"

 

His dad takes a deep breath. "Do you think Mr Dawson thought his brother would ever sell him out? Nate, don’t you get it? You cannot trust anybody."

 

His mother cuts in. "Nate, darling. Just keep your head down. This will end soon. We just have to make it."

 

Nate shakes his head. "How can this end if everybody thinks like that? Who's actually gonna change anything if--"

 

His dad cuts him off. "Nate. Stop it. Talking like that gets people killed. Don’t you understand?"  He looks at Nate, and for good measure, it seems, puts his arm on Nate's shoulder. "Just keep quiet and your head down. This will blow over."

 

Nate looks at his parents. The thing is that part of him understands them, understands why they want to keep him out of this. If he can't be a model citizen of the state - a dream his parents gave up when he refused to participate in the Jungvolk Games when he was 12 - it would be best to keep his head down, ignore what he sees until he doesn’t even see it anymore.

 

But there's a different part of him, the part that makes his stomach tighten and his heart beat faster whenever he sees Injustices. That's the fighter in him, Nate reckons. He just can’t watch it any longer without fighting back. Showing them that not everybody will be silenced. It is also, Nate knows deep inside, the part that will probably get him killed.

 

Wait and lay low, Mike said years ago, looking at Nate’s ripped uniform. Nate has waited, has learned, has made them forget about him. And he suddenly realizes he cannot wait any longer. It’s time.

He takes a step back from their front door. "You’re right, dad. I’m not gonna do anything stupid, but I still need to talk to Mike."

 

He hates to see the relieved faces of his parents. Lying to them shouldn’t be this easy.

 

-

 

Mike is in his living room, just as expected, when Nate walks in. He looks like he expected Nate to barge in.

 

Nate barely waits with closing the door until he starts talking. “It’s time now.”

 

Mike simply looks at him, not understanding. Or understanding too well.

 

“We have to do something now, Mike,” Nate says, pleadingly. “You told me to wait. I waited long enough.”

 

Mike sighs. “Is this about Mr Dawson?”

 

Nate doesn’t wonder how Mike knows about Mr Dawson. Bad news travels fast, and it speeds when it’s a matter of life or death.

 

“Yeah,” Nate says, sitting down in the chair opposite Mike’s. “We have to do something.”

 

Mike’s lips turn down in a thoughtful pout, and he nods slowly as he stares into nothing for a minute, the picture of reflection. “Alright,” he says at last with a careless shrug. “What do you want to do?”

 

And his tone is not unkind but his eyes are sharp and they pin Nate down, make him frown and sit straighter.

 

“We could go to the police,” Nate starts, “ask why they’ve taken him.”

 

“Yeah, we could,” Mike agrees. “Best case scenario, we’re told it’s none of our fucking business and gently escorted out. Most probable scenario, we get a surveillance squad on our asses and a flagged file with our names on it for the rest of, worst case scenario, our very short lives.”

 

The glare Nate’s sends Mike is more venomous than half the native plant species Mike’s familiar with, but his face remains composed.

 

“You’re not even angry,” Nate spits, hurt flashing through his eyes, before he huffs a brief, derisive breath.

 

“Why?” Mike asks, leaning forward in his chair. “Because my first impulse isn’t to charge blindly into the station and demand justice? Is that why you think I’m not angry?”

 

Nate’s right leg start bouncing even as his jaw clenches. He’s never disrespected Mike, but he comes close then, the apparent indifference of his friend hitting much harder than he anticipated.

 

“Nate,” Mike says, gently.

 

“Nevermind, I’ll find something,” Nate interrupts. He stands up in a hurry and is almost at the door before Mike catches up to him.

 

“Nate,” he calls again, louder. Nate stops. When he turns to face Mike, it’s another afternoon with the American Youth on one of the many occasions Mike had to pass along instructions that had Nate stare at him, angry and lost, _why are we doing this_ written in every line of his face. He’d followed Mike’s lead every time, even when he didn’t understand it, even when he didn’t agree with it. He is fifteen and angry, and for the first time, he doesn’t want to listen to Mike if all he’s going to get from it are platitudes.

 

Mike sighs and grabs Nate’s neck, shakes him a little. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Nate. I’m just saying we have to be smart about it.”

 

Nate deflates and tenses up all over again, the words sending a thrill through his spine. “We?”

 

“Of course, kid. Do you really think I’d let you take down the Reich alone?” Mike smiles, and just like that, Nate’s back on solid ground. “We’re gonna find a way, Nate. We just have to be smart. Getting killed won’t help the cause, alright?”

 

Nate shakes his head and Mike continues.

 

“But you have to promise me one thing, Nate.”

 

Nate looks at him, expectedly.

 

“You finish high school first.”

 

Nate starts to protest, but Mike cuts him off. “No discussion. You finish school first, then we’ll go to New York, okay?”

 

“But that’s going to be two more years!”

 

“Yes, exactly. Two more years for you to have a life.” Mike looks at him, his forehead creased. “Nate. You won’t have a life once we leave Baltimore. No university, no schooling. No free time to bugger off and do what you want to do. Enjoy two more years of your life, then I’ll come with you.”

 

Nate thinks about it for a second. He doesn’t ask whether Mike will keep his promise - he knows he will. In the end, it’s an easy decision to make. He nods.

It's October 17th, 1954. Nate is 15, and he’s just made a decision that will change his life.

 

________________

 

####  **1957**

 

 

 

 

> **_WHO IS CLIMBING OUR FAVOURITE PIECE OF ELITE MANMEAT THESE DAYS?_ **
> 
> _IS BRAD COLBERT SHACKING UP WITH A GERMAN DIPLOMAT’S DAUGHTER?_
> 
>  
> 
> **SHOCKING PHOTOS INSIDE!** (see page 3)
> 
> Denise Martin, September 23rd, 1957.
> 
>  
> 
> Well, someone had a busy week! After having graduated last Tuesday at the top of his class from the New York Adolf Hitler School for the elite future officers of our country, Brad Colbert, who turned 21 just two months ago, has been spotted enjoying his week of freedom before officially embracing his career in the Schutzstaffel. And by enjoying, we mean that our darling star soldier has been seen out and about at the most popular events this week, entertaining charming — and visibly intimate — company.
> 
>  
> 
> On Thursday, Brad attended a dinner party hosted by Herr Glasen, head of the American section of the SS himself, escorted by none other than Darla Olson. Darla recently shot to fame thanks to her role of Mandy in the critically acclaimed movie _Among the Winter Leaves_. Friends of the actress confirmed that the two lovebirds only met recently, but hit it off immediately: “You should have seen the way they acted around each other. Wandering hands, flirty looks - Darla’s a goner on him!” The two left the party together, and Olson was spotted exiting Colbert’s residence the next morning, looking perfectly radiant and happy. She even blew kisses to the waiting reporters and fans! But Colbert’s week had only gotten started!
> 
>  
> 
> On Friday, he was out with a group of friends (including the son of his long standing mentor Herr Schmidt) in Belucci’s, the famous jazz joint on 52nd. Sources at the scene told us that Colbert did not suffer from loneliness, despite the notable absence of Mrs Olson. “He refused to dance, but he got plenty attention nevertheless”, a partygoer confided.  “He was standing at the bar, drinking whisky and was soon surrounded by an entire pack of ladies!” We can’t blame them being eager to be better acquainted with his 6’4  of peak physical condition - who wouldn’t be?
> 
>  
> 
> BUT! That is not all, dear readers. On Saturday and Sunday the entire Reich celebrated, as you know, the anniversary of the  official surrender of the Eurasian territories. Brad was for the occasion given permission to wear his Schutzstaffel uniform for the very first time, and looked positively delectable. He was accompanied by yet another beauty - Ines Hahn, daughter of the respected Ambassador Werner Hahn, could not keep her eyes off him all through the festivities. Colbert filled his uniform out nicely, a sight we’ll get more of as he’ll be expected to attend numerous social events this season! We’re sure the ladies of the Reich can’t wait for more pics of those shoulders!
> 
>  
> 
> After the official part of the ceremony, Colbert and Ambassador Hahn were seen conversing, looking relaxed and friendly. Does that mean that our Brad has finally found a family? Should we expect official news of a union between him and Miss Hahn? The official spokesperson of the Hahn family gave no comment, but we do know that Miss Hahn spent _both_ nights at Colbert’s residence, and that Colbert joined the Hahn family for breakfast on Monday. Looks official to us. Well done Ines, make us proud. We’re sure your babies will look every bit as Aryan perfect as their dad!

 

________________

 

"Look at this," Nate spits as soon as the door opens, nearly shoving the magazine in Mike’s face. "Kids read this," he hisses. "They read about this arrogant bastard, this murderer living like a movie star because he's so good at killing people. All the articles make it sound so glamorous, so fun. Oh, who is darling Brad wining and dining tonight? Jesus, I could kill him. How does he even live with himself?"

 

Mike waits him out patiently. When Nate seethes in silence, having apparently finished his rant, he allows himself a smirk and steps aside to let Nate come in.

 

"Got it out of your system, kiddo?" he asks after having closed the door.

 

Nate snorts humorlessly. "I will when I put a bullet in that motherfucker."

 

Mike takes the magazine out of Nate’s hands and throws it in the trash without even glancing at it.

 

Nate sighs, shaking his head in mute anger as he tries to get a hold of himself. “You have news, you said?”

 

His parents think he’s out looking for a job. Nate tries to appease his conscience by pointing out that he is, technically, looking for a job. Just not the one they think he is. Or where.

 

Mike lets him in after carefully examining the street. It has become second nature for both of them by now. "Yeah, I made contact with someone who's in New York."

 

Nate immediately perks up. "What is he like?" he asks, genuinely curious. The New York Cell is, from the sounds of it, the biggest resistance cell in the Reich. No wonder, with the government working from there. Power attracts all kinds of people, supporters and detractors alike.

 

Mike ponders for a second. "Honestly?” he huffs. “Crazy as a bag of rats. But he's the one who hooked you up with a job, and me with a doctor, so he can’t be all that bad."

A doctor, Nate thinks. Of course. They'd need a body to stand in for Mike. This really is happening. Nate finished High School three months ago, neither under the best nor the worst in his class. A perfect B- student.

 

“The guy,” Mike continues, “Roy or something, said it’d be best if we moved quickly, especially because we’re leaving a lot behind.”

 

Nate doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t reply. Instead, hums noncommittally.

 

Mike looks at him, his eyes full of worry. "Nate? You wanna back out? It's okay if you want to. We can stay here, work from here. Every bit helps."

 

Nate shakes his head. "No, it doesn't. We need to go to where we can truly hurt them, have a real chance to bring them down. That's New York."

 

Mike nods, but still doesn’t seem satisfied. "And you're sure you know what you're giving up? There's no way back."

 

"Yeah, Mike, I do,” Nate replies curtly. “I’m not the kid you took on a camping trip anymore. I know what this means."

 

Instead of minding Nate’s tone, Mike nods, appeased. "I know, Nate. I know. I just want you to be fully aware of what you're about to do."

 

"I’m going to cut all ties with my parents, never talk to them or see them ever again." Nate pushes his chin up high defiantly and forces all emotion out of his voice. He wants Mike to know he understands. He's not a kid anymore.

 

Mike nods and continues. "Yes, but that's only half of it."

 

Nate tilts his head, not sure what Mike is getting at.

 

"Look, Nate. You're not only going to leave your past behind, your parents. You're also giving up any hope at a normal future."

 

Nate opens his mouth to reply, but Mike cuts him off. "No, Nate. I need you to understand what you're giving up here. You're never going to get a higher education, even though hell knows that’s a crime with that brain of yours. You're never going to have a peaceful, settled life, never gonna have your own family. Your future will be measured in months, not years, all your relationships will be a liability. Do you understand?"

 

His gaze is so stern that Nate can’t bring himself to voice his understanding. Instead, he just nods. Yes, he understands. But Mike continues.

 

"And, kid, we're going to have to do some real nasty stuff." He laughs, but there's no humour in it. "Damn, Nate, all I ever wanted was to shield you from all this killing bullshit, and now I'm sending you into it." He passes a hand over his mouth, shaking his head in dismay.

 

Nate thinks back on his days in the Hitler Youth. It was Mike who taught him how to hunt, how to kill rabbits and other small animals, how to fight dirty, how to shoot a gun.

 

His voice sounds small when he speaks. "Well, you taught me everything I know."

 

Again, Mike chuckles. Again, it sounds grim. "I guess we'll find out how good of a teacher I am." He pauses. "I mean it, Nate. Sooner or later, you'll have to kill. Or get killed. You gotta be prepared for it."

 

Death. Of course Nate has contemplated this. The Reich has no mercy for those who oppose it, the show trials on TV are enough proof of it. Nate's mind brings back images of the last trial he watched. Two months ago, three "terrorists" were tried. The death penalty surprised nobody, not even the defendants. Nate remembered watching the execution - it followed the trial immediately. He’d forced himself to watch it, to imagine himself walking up to the wall and facing the firing squad. He doesn’t know whether that means he’s prepared, but he has no illusion about his fate should things go wrong.

 

Thinking back on the familiar emotionless face of the SS going through the execution orders, Nate smiles wryly. "Well, I sure hope Colbert will be commanding my death squad, too, so that I can personally tell him to go fuck himself."

 

The complete absence of any feeling on Colbert's face was impressive in a way. He’d walked down the line at a sedate, regular pace, gun held firmly but comfortably in his gloved hand. Step, step, extend arm, fire. One bullet to the back of the head. Step, step, next condemned, extend arm, fire. Rinse and repeat. The lack of triumph in his attitude made Nate sick. It was as if Colbert took a leisurely Sunday afternoon stroll, not a walk down the execution hallway.

 

What kind of person are you when cold blooded murder provokes no reaction? Nate can handle fanatics, has seen enough of them to learn, but Colbert isn’t one, never was. He’s something else, something unsettling that Nate can’t wrap his head around.

 

Mike's voice draws Nate out of his thoughts. "Apparently we are sending him to Japan now.” At Nate’s scowl, Mike chuckles. “God, you really hate that guy."

 

Nate lets out a short, breathless laugh. "You know since when?" He can’t believe he never told Mike this.

 

Mike shakes his head, waiting for Nate to go on.

 

“Ever since you gave us that Pimpf magazine."

 

For a second, Mike looks confused before he places the memory.

 

"Wait, on the very first day?"  He laughs. "God, I knew you were trouble even back then."

 

Nate joins in Mike's laughter.

 

"Yeah. I learned about Colbert the very same day I met you."

 

What an odd parallel, Nate thinks. That he would meet his nemesis and his best friend the very same day. In one way or the other, Colbert was always there. He grew up with them, always held up as this ideal. While his place in the spotlight grew larger and larger, Nate and Mike snuck towards the shadows.

 

Nate watches Mike go into his kitchen and return with a bottle of Whisky and two glasses. He raises a curious eyebrow as his friend pour the alcohol into the glasses and push one towards Nate.

 

“You do remember that one-week workshop in ‘54 about how alcohol diminishes the strength and purity of the Aryan race?" Nate asks, but lifts the glass anyways, admiring the golden liquid.

 

He has no idea where Mike got the bottle from - alcohol consumption, though not legally banned, is highly frowned upon.

 

Mike shrugs good naturedly. "I figure if you're old enough to die for what you believe in, you're old enough for Scotch." He clinks his glass against Nate's and drowns it in one go.

 

Nate takes a small sip. The alcohol burning in his throat makes him coughs, and Mike laughs.

 

"Here's to us, kid."

 

It’s August 16, 1957. Nate is 18 years old. This is the last night he’ll ever spend at home.

 

-

 

Nate arrives in New York carrying a suitcase, a bike, and a note with an address on it.

 

The address, it turns out, belongs to a women's underwear shop. Nate stares at the shop, incredulous, stares back at the address to make sure he didn’t get it wrong.

 

Before he can decide what to do next, a wiry, black-haired guy walks up to him and stares blatantly at the shopping window.

 

Nate starts to walk away - no use hanging around, not with an obviously wrong address - when the guy speaks up.

 

"Didn’t find what you were looking for?"

 

Oh please, Nate thinks, now the local weirdo is chatting me up. Great.

 

“Not quite," he says, trying to cut the conversation short.

 

Instead of taking the hint, the guy keeps on talking.

 

"Yeah, I get you. Not mine either. It's all too... uniform." He even gestures at the bras and panties in the window, and Nate hopes to god there’s no police around, lest they be arrested for public indecency.

 

"I guess," Nate says, unlocking his bike and balancing his suitcase on it, before the words register. His head snaps up, and he sees the guy flash a brief smile.

 

"If you have more elaborate tastes, you should check out the costume department at the New York Opera. Give them a call sometime." With that, the guy turns around and starts to walk away.

 

Nate stands on the sidewalk, one hand on his bike, the other one holding his suitcase. He's not sure what just happened.

 

Three days later, when he tells Mike what happened, his friend doubles over laughing. "He did not."

 

"Yeah, he did," Nate says. "Left me there standing like an idiot, staring after him."

 

"So what did you do?"

 

"What do you think I did? Got out of there before the Sittenpolizei found me staring at undies like a teenager!" They both laugh before Mike gets serious again.

 

"At least that's good news. God knows I needed that." His voice sounds tired.

 

"Yeah. How did it go with you?" Nate asks.

 

Mike thinks for a moment. "Dying isn't fun, I can tell you."

 

When they came up with their plan to move to NY, they figured it would be smart, faking Mike's death. The police doesn’t look for dead people. Simple as that.

 

"But it worked out alright?" Nate asks, trying to get Mike to talk.

 

"Like a charm. They didn’t even look too closely at the body. Not that there was much to look at, burnt as it was." Mike takes a deep breath before looking Nate in the eye. "Anyway, we made it. We're here. And we're going to fuck them up."

 

Nate laughs, glad the gloomy atmosphere disappeared. "Yeah, we are."

 

________________

 

####  **1959**

 

“Colbert, Godfather wants you to know that he is very pleased with you, very pleased.”

Brad ignores the ache in his shoulders and the pain in his feet, the blister on his right heel where his new pair of boots is too tight and not worn in yet. He ignores his hunger and how tired he is. He ignores it all. Instead, he straightens up and looks at his commander. He can hear the soldier to his right suck in a sharp breath of air. Being singled out by Godfather like this, in front of everybody, is a big deal. Brad doesn’t let anything show on his face. Godfather continues.

“In fact, Godfather wants everybody to know that Colbert showed what Godfather appreciates most in a soldier: decisive action. He didn’t hesitate when he saw those people fleeing from the raid. Instead, he took action and made sure they were eliminated.”

At this, Brad feels his stomach hollowing out. He doesn’t know how many he killed that night. After he started, everybody in his platoon opened fire. He’ll never know, and in a way it doesn’t matter. It’s not the first time he was the harbinger of death, and it won’t be the last. Brad knows he's good at what he does. Some say he’s the best.

“Colbert, come meet Godfather in his office. The rest of you are dismissed.” With that, Godfather walks away, leaving Brad with his colleagues. He ignores their jealous stares and follows Godfather to his office. The whispers start before he’s even out of the briefing room.

When he arrives in Godfather’s office, his commander is standing behind the desk, searching through some papers before finding the ones he was looking for. He doesn’t look up when he starts speaking.

“Godfather has decided on your next assignment and he thinks you'll be very happy with it,” he declares, filling out blanks on the sheet in front of him. “We're sending you on a one-year exchange to the Japanese Pacific States. You'll be joining their elite border guard and will be patrolling along the Neutral Zone. You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Brad doesn’t let his surprise show, despite how unexpected the news is. He has never heard of an exchange programme with the Pacific Japanese States. If anything, the Japanese tend to avoid any dealing with The Greater Reich. Sending him there for something as trivial as border patrol seems… odd.

The Neutral Zone, though, Brad thinks. The buffer zone where the fringes of society meet. It's a cesspool of refugees, hunted, smugglers and worse. There’s no reason to enter it unless you have shady business to conduct. There are individuals there that the Reich would very much like to get their hands on, but Brad knows they can’t.

The voice of his commander snaps him back to the present. “You're the pride of the Reich, Colbert, and don't get me wrong, this mission is both military and diplomatic. We're sending you there to do the Reich proud. Understood?” Godfather fixes him with his steely ice-blue eyes.

Brad nods. “Aye aye, sir. Understood.”

Godfather nods. “Good. You'll be taking the next flight out to their base in Salt Lake City. Your detailed instructions are specified in your orders."

Brad takes the papers. When he turns around to leave, Godfather calls him back.

"Don’t forget, Colbert. All for the Reich.”

“All for the Reich,” Brad repeats automatically.

-

“Scharführer Colbert, sir?”

“Yes?” Brad keeps walking but slows his pace enough for the young man who called out to him to catch up.

He is carrying what looks like a freshly pressed uniform in a see-through clothing bag and a small black box, and looks both terrified and awestruck. Brad’s used to this, unfortunately, but he does his best to ignore it as he waits for the young man to continue.

“You will be needed in the Colonel’s office at eighteen hundred to have your photograph taken with Nishimura-san to celebrate the start of the exchange programme, sir. Here,” the young man gingerly hands Brad the uniform he’s been carrying, “is your dress uniform, fresh from the laundry. And your medals, sir.” He places the black box on top of the uniform, fingers lingering on it in something that looks disturbingly like a caress.

Brad makes sure everything is securely held and resumes his brisk pace. It’s 17:15. It leaves him plenty of time to shower and get ready. The errand boy keeps following him. Brad throws him a glance.

“Was there something else?” he asks.

The young man flushes, caught off guard, before he mumbles a hasty “Um, no, sir,” and promptly turns around to head off in the opposite direction.

Brad doesn’t know whose idea it was to open intern positions at the goddamn SS headquarters of all places, but you would think whoever is in charge of recruiting would know how to pick people who can actually do work without getting sidetracked by his public persona. Every time he runs into one of those errand boys, Brad feels like he’s five minutes away from getting his dick sucked. It’s undignified. He walks to the barracks, hoping no one else will intercept him.

-

Nishimura-san is tall for a Japanese man, but standing next to Brad in full uniform and wearing his medals he looks tiny. Judging by the look on his face, he is aware of it and none too pleased about it. Brad shakes his hand with all the politeness and respect he can muster without making it condescending. Cameras click, the handshake will appear in the evening newsreel, and Brad wonders if Nishimura-san feels as superfluous to the whole process as Brad does.

Godfather joins them for more photos, a brief address to the press, and more handshaking. It’s the affair of half an hour before the journalists and the film crew are escorted out and Brad is sent away, his presence not required when politics are being discussed.

Brad looks at his watch. His flight leaves at 4am. The official channels will broadcast news of his assignment with much fanfare, but he has nobody to tell. He might as well head to the mess, grab some dinner, and call it a day.

No one stops him.

-

Brad settles in his seat, stretches his legs and leans back, makes himself comfortable. Despite being on military assignment, his status means he gets to fly on a civilian plane, among diplomats and wealthy businessmen. He had to go through the usual song and dance before boarding, shake hands, smoke cigars, assure influential people that the government is as strong as ever, but it’s a fair price to pay for legroom and a seat that does not feel like concrete.

Arrival in Salt Lake City is scheduled for 9:14am. Brad grabs his bag and takes a folder out. Time to study.

His orders are pretty simple. He will be stationed at Fort Douglas, a military garrison about three miles east of Salt Lake City, right on the border. There, he will be attached to the Arai Detachment, a small force of infantry made up of soldiers specialised in mountain warfare as well as regular infantry soldiers for border security. Brad isn’t sure which one of those qualification applies to him. Mountain warfare sounds fun, but he doubts there will be much of it happening. Border security sounds tedious however he tries to phrase it.

His mission is to participate in border patrols with a rotating roster of teams, help establish new exercises and strategies for the training of troops, organise missions to test the application of said training, and maintain the harmonious relationship between the Greater Reich and the Japanese Pacific States. Both sides assure themselves of their full cooperation and goodwill.

Brad snorts.

Kosei Arai, his future commander, is a decorated Colonel whose ties to the Greater Reich are well documented. At first an avid supporter and ally, Arai is now suspected to be among those who believe the Greater Reich has designs on the Japanese Pacific States territory. Brad cannot tell whether the man is right or wrong, but he isn’t stupid enough to think his presence will be perceived as nothing more than a warning at best, at worst a threat. Just like he isn’t stupid enough to not realize this is exactly the effect intended.

He lets his head fall back against the headrest. He feels tired, all of a sudden. He wonders when he stopped being proud of what he does. Between the politics, the ass-kissing, the eternal bull and shit of the dog and pony show, his own desire to serve his country seems at times to border on the naive.

He wanted a war and instead found himself turned into a poster soldier heralded as a public  hero to be paraded and displayed, the symbol of perfection of a regime that kills children to punish a distant relative who opened their mouths when they shouldn’t have. Brad wanted to be a warrior but this isn’t a war, and he’s barely more than a glorified pawn.

He keeps thinking about the people he shot during the raid. Being praised for it doesn’t sit right, even now. He has no issue with the fact that killing people is part of his life, of his job, but not like this. There’s something about shooting unarmed people in the back that offends him. People who, for the most part, were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A clear enemy, Brad will gun down without hesitation, but this — this isn’t it. This isn’t what he trained for. Or, Brad thinks with a sinking feeling in his stomach, exactly what he trained for.

Looking out through the aircraft window, memories of another cross country trip float back unbidden. For once, Brad lets them play out. The loud rumbling of the train on its rails, the wide, endless fields of wheat and corn. San Diego, Chicago, New York. The announcement on the radio that he didn’t listen to at the time.

Among the memories come the faces of his parents and he shuts the image down immediately, the reaction so ingrained in him he doesn’t realize until after, his mind blissfully blank, all recollection of his past gone and locked away. It unsettles him, how quickly he killed the memories. It shouldn’t, but the truth is that he doesn’t think about his parents often, not nearly as often as he could allow himself to. He never did.

He does, then. Thirty five thousand feet above the ground, he forces himself to picture his father’s face on that last day, hears his mother’s voice in his ear and the words that have led him right here, on this plane. Be brave. Protect yourself.

How far can you go to protect yourself? If the things you do in order to achieve it change you, is that still protecting yourself? Are you someone who still deserves protection? The more Brad thinks about it, the more it seems to him that he’s become the one people need protection _from_ , and he doubts this is what his mother had in mind when she sent him away all those years ago.

A bitter taste clogs the back of his mouth and turns his stomach. It’s not shame, but it feels strangely like guilt, uncomfortable and alien.

The line of Brad’s jaw goes tight, and he straightens, snapping out of his thoughts. He clearly didn’t sleep enough if one hour with nothing to do brings on this kind of weak-ass, peace-loving, bullshit musings. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Cry himself to sleep, ask for forgiveness? What the fuck, Colbert.

He finishes reading the infos on Fort Douglas and its occupants and gets started on the maps. He has four more hours to learn his new AO, better get to it. And if his eyes stray west every now and then and he has to resist the urge to follow the course of train tracks with his fingers all the way to the ocean, it’s just another thing to lock away. It doesn’t matter.

-

The dirty desert that greets him upon landing looks nothing like the picture of the west that lingers on the back of his eyelids. The breeze on his face is dry, the salt in the air doesn’t taste like the sea. It makes it easier.

There’s a young Japanese man in a military uniform standing right outside the arrival gate when Brad walks through. He straightens when Brad catches his eye and immediately starts making his way to him. Brad meets him halfway, careful to keep a respectable distance between them when he comes to a stop. Bumping heads when everyone bows at the same time would result in disastrous diplomatic consequences, no doubt.

The man introduces himself as Corporal Tokohima, speaks only in Japanese, and doesn’t say or do anything not strictly necessary to a decent greeting.

So that’s how it’s going to be. So much for the famed politeness of the Japanese.

Welcome to the Japanese Pacific States.

Brad bows, doesn’t say a single word, and waits for the Corporal to lead him to their car. The silence and absence of reaction from Brad seem to throw the young man, but he rallies fast and heads towards the exit after gesturing at Brad to follow him.

The drive to base is spent in absolute silence. About a half hour later, the car pulls up to a large gated entrance where a guard is already waiting outside the security booth. Brad gets his military ID out of his duffel and hands it to his driver, watches as the guard examines it before returning it.

The car stops once they reach what seems to be the main barracks: a single building maybe half as big as Brad’s barracks in New York where it’s part of a ten building complex. Here, Brad can only see four other barracks. He feels like he was sent back to school. It’s insulting.

He unfolds himself out of the car, not bothering to hide his relief at being able to stretch.

There are five men standing side by side on the small esplanade before the building. Four of them are in uniform, the last one is wearing slacks, a tan shirt, and is holding a camera. Brad identifies Colonel Arai at once, the three stars on three red and yellow stripes collar insignia as good as a name badge.

Colonel Arai is the top dog of the garrison, as it is too small a complex to require a higher ranking officer. The rest of the chain of command is in Salt Lake City proper, within easy reach if necessary. He’s a stocky man with a face that is starting to show his age, wrinkles in places youth usually keep smooth. His eyes are appraising but not hostile. He either has a good poker face, or isn’t as virulent as Brad’s file would have him.

Next to the Colonel is his Major. Same stripes, one star. The file said Major Yokohama, excellent record, brilliant achievements during the war. Why he is now in bumfuck nowhere guarding an imaginary line is absent from the file, but Brad could make a couple of guesses. The Major’s poker face isn’t nearly as good as the Colonel’s.

Next in line is, predictably, Captain Komatsu, the only Captain in the garrison. His face is politely blank, no outstanding feature, no thought to lift off it. The file credited him with no particular feat. A good officer, not exceptional, border control will be good enough for him, Brad wagers.

The last man is the one whose name Brad doesn’t know. There are three Lieutenants at Fort Douglas, but at the time Brad’s file was written up, which one would be Brad’s CO had not been disclosed. This one looks to be about Brad’s age. He looks intrigued by Brad, which, all things considered, isn’t too bad of a start.

They all bow, introduce themselves in perfect English, then shake hands with Brad in a courteous display of respect for his country. They might be displeased with having to host him for a year, but they are certainly taking it with grace. Brad finds that he doesn’t care much either way. He isn’t interested in the politics of the exchange as long as this can be a worthwhile experience for him as a soldier.

The man with the camera takes a couple of pictures during the introductions, then thanks everyone and leaves without so much as a by your leave. Brad could be offended, but he’s relieved. It must have shown on his face, because Colonel Arai studies him for a moment, mouth in a tight line, before relaxing a fraction, satisfied.

In the presence of his superiors, Corporal Tokohima seems to magically remember his manners and rank. He offers to take Brad’s duffel and carry it to Brad’s assigned rack. Brad makes his “No, thank you” sound as deferential as he is physically able.  The resentful glare he gets in return is all the reward he needs. He can and will be nice, but he refuses to take any lip from a fucking OR-5.

By the time the pleasantries are out of the way, it’s past ten o’clock. Lieutenant Otsu - that’s his name - offers to accompany Brad to his room so he can stash his bag and meet his new playmates before lunch.

From then on, it’s the same old routine.

The good thing about being in the military is that it is the same no matter where you are.   _Join the army and you get a family for life!_ was a slogan used on recruitment posters when Brad was young. They weren’t wrong. It's almost the only family Brad has ever known.

Every soldier here speaks English, and Brad knows enough Japanese to handle himself should he need to. Soon enough, the familiarity of drills, mission planning, and patrols make up for any sense of displacement he could have felt.

Fort Douglas doesn’t feel like home, but he knows exactly what he is doing here, and he knows he does it well. Here in the Pacific States or back in the Reich, it’s the same giant machine and he is one efficient cog.

Except for Corporal Fucktard, who seems to have a personal yet mysterious beef with Brad, everyone on base is acting with the utmost decency. Brad’s troop is even friendlier that he can handle at times. He did not expect it, but he can see the sense in it. Brad Colbert returning to New York full of praise and goodwill toward the Japanese Pacific States can only be an advantage in a diplomatic stand off more advanced than Brad had been led to assume.

He does not blame them for it, appreciates their efforts, as it makes things far easier for him than they could have been. It is a constant reminder that he is not here as a soldier, though. He is here as a political tool. Try as he might, reminding himself that it’s “all for the Reich” is starting to be difficult to swallow. The Reich likes to show him off when it best serves its interests. Brad’s own never factor into it.

**  
**

Brad has three days off every twenty-five days. He scoffed when he first received the news, but didn’t voice his displeasure. When his first libo rolls around, he’s ashamed by how relieved he feels. He never would have thought that being surrounded by people who want him to like them would be so exhausting. When Lieutenant Otsu asks him if he has any plans, Brad nods, thoughts forming as he lets the words out.

“I was thinking of getting a car and drive to the mountains. Hike for a while, find a nice spot, get a fire going, hunt some game.”

Otsu smiles at him, despite a brief hesitation. Maybe he would rather Brad stayed on base, but Brad doesn’t care. If Brad’s plan to head to the Neutral Zone surprises or bothers his commanding officer, though, Otsu doesn’t show it.

“Kings Peak is tough this time of year, but it’s a beautiful hike,” he offers. “There’s a trail, about 20 miles roundtrip starting from a campground. I can give you directions, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that, sir.”

**  
**

All in all, entering the Neutral Zone is an underwhelming experience. Brad crosses the border and drives past the sign that wishes him welcome to the Rocky Mountain States after only a brief stop at the checkpoint.

The lieutenant gave him a map, and the directions neatly written on a separate piece of paper. It seems redundant to Brad, but he knows better than to point it out.

It should be a three hour drive to reach the trailhead. Brad settles comfortably and tries to ignore how much every twist and curve of the road makes him miss his bike. He drives too fast, hums under his breath, and lets the mountains clear his head.

When he comes back, Brad feels better, free in a way he never experienced before. The closest he can think of is the very last training exercise before graduating from the Order Castle. He and his classmates had been dropped off in different, unfamiliar locations over an area of 75 square kilometres of treacherous mountain terrain. They had to figure out where they were and be the first to make it back to the checkpoint. Killing the other participants to ensure one’s victory was an acceptable tactic. Brad had managed to win without it. Solitude, skill, and a clear objective: everything Brad had needed. It had been a good three days.

His newfound good spirits don’t last.

Two days into his new twenty five, Brad is asked to take part in a meeting with the officers to talk about new strategies for border control, the possibility of establishing new checkpoints, change the patrol teams. His opinion is solicited numerous times, with a kind of anxious eagerness that turns his stomach. He’s a Scharführer, not even an officer yet. These men are his superiors. They shouldn’t ask him his opinion, they shouldn’t care about what he has to say. They certainly should not feel that his validation is more important than what they are trying to achieve.

It makes no sense. None of this makes any sense. To be treated as if he wields enough power to destroy them when his mere presence here is evidence that his entire life is ruled by the will and whims of others. It’s absurd.

As is becoming more and more frequent, he swallows his annoyance, offers whatever input he deems appropriate, and thanks Colonel Arai for this opportunity to be involved in the decision making process of the Fort. Despite his own misgivings and the dubious reasons for the opportunity, it is an honor extended to few, and Brad is aware of it. He doesn’t have a choice, anyways.

**  
**

He starts running.

In the mornings, in the evenings, in the middle of the afternoon if his schedule is empty and there’s nothing to do but sit with his thumb up his ass and shoot the shit with his troop. Whenever he has more than thirty minutes of down time, he grabs his pack, fills it until it’s as heavy as it will get, and runs. If it leaves him too exhausted for his frustration to solidify into anger, good. If it leaves him too exhausted to think at all, excellent. If he still stares at the ceiling some nights wondering what the fuck he’s doing, he can run an additional five miles next time.

**  
**

Life goes on.

He goes on patrol. He establishes a new training regime. He attends meetings. He goes on patrol again.

Three days before his second libo, they arrest a man at the border checkpoint. He says he’s going to Canon City. His identification papers are forged. He must be a Jew. He’s brought to Fort Douglas to be interrogated. Being a Jew in the Japanese Pacific States is survivable as long as you made it through the purification wave back in 1946 and never gave the Kampeitai or the Imperial Army an excuse to look into you since.

Brad thinks about his parents. He wonders if hey tried to change their names and were denied, forced to hide their identities through forgery, forced to break the law to protect themselves. He wonders if they succeeded at either. Wonders if they lived to see 1947.

They release the man. His right arm is so fucked he’ll probably never be able to regain full use of it. He thanks them on the way out.

This is Brad’s job, and he’s accepted it.

He goes on another run.

**  
**

The days off become his refuge. For the first time in his life, Brad catches himself counting down the days until his next trip away from base. He ventures farther out every chance he has, no matter the weather. After a while, his officer stops giving him tips. Four months in, Lt Otsu asks Brad where to go for his next camping trip with his son. Brad tells him of some lake he found a couple of trips ago and knows he’ll never go back to.

Brad is aware of the fact that he stands out like a sore thumb. He’s easily one head taller than the tallest Japanese guy on base. And if his height and fair hair weren’t distinctive enough, his uniform is subdued and dark, as opposed to the olive drab the Japanese are wearing. He couldn’t fit in if he tried to.

The foreignness of it all doesn’t diminish over time. Seven months into his exchange and Brad can still feel everybody’s eyes on him, no matter where he goes. He was never one to strike up friendships, but now he finds himself almost considering it. Everyone has been hoping for it since he set foot on base, it wouldn’t require much of an effort.

Instead, Brad runs.

Sometimes, he thinks of not stopping. He imagines running past the guard at the gate, into the Neutral Zone, and still keeping up the pace. He wants to run until his lungs burn and his legs give out, until his body makes him stop. It’s not running away if you leave nothing behind.

**  
**

Another twenty-five days, another libo coming up.

There is one last thing to go through. The Japanese Pacific States are celebrating some obscure Japanese Holiday. Brad tries in vain to remember what for while he prepares for the drill. The landing of the first Japanese troops on the West Coast? The surrender of the last American troops?

When he enters the parade ground, he realizes it must be something big. The entire guard is mobilized, waiting in the shadows, trying to avoid the scorching sun for as long as possible. There are bleachers packed with people. Brad even sees a cordoned-off section for the press. As soon as they see him, the crowd erupts in cheers. Brad ignores it and looks for his platoon.

All through the drill, Brad feels thousands of eyes on him. At first, he tells himself he’s imagining it, but he watches the audience whilst his body goes through the motions and sees most of them are here for him, watching his every move with rapt attention. Instead of pride, it fills him with dread and anger. This is a parade for civilians. Not a show of force, not a display of military efficiency. The gun he is carrying isn’t even loaded. And yet the crowd cheers and waves and beams as if witnessing the best and brightest and most ruthless warriors of the Imperial Army slaying dragons. I’m not being a warrior out here, Brad thinks, just a glorified circus monkey.

The anger stays with him during the ceremony, the photo op, the handshakes with important people. Despite his being used to it, the entire process grates on him. The tentative friendliness extended to him over and over again gets to him more than the calculating stares he gets in the Reich. It catches him off guard every time, before he remembers that none of it is entirely genuine.

I want to be nobody, Brad thinks, as flashes go off and he keeps his eyes from blinking. I want to be a normal human being for once. Sit down somewhere and not be watched. I just want to be me.

**  
**

That evening, while the Japanese soldiers on base are given special permission to celebrate in the city, Brad packs his bag, gets a car, and drives east. If he drives fast enough, he can get to Capitol Peak shortly after midnight.

Four hours later, 13 miles before Grand Junction, he sees a sign that reads Canon City, 256 miles. The name summons the memory of that man they’d arrested months ago. Forged papers to try to hide his Jewish origin. He had said he was going to Canon City. They’d asked what for, later, during the interrogation, and the man had said “To live.” Like it was that simple. Like Canon City would accept a Jew on exile and give him a home, let him live.

Brad’s hands clench around the wheel. While a part of him wants to beat the man up for being so naive, as if being free could be solved simply by moving a few hundred miles, a smaller part of him wants to reach out desperately, take that chance for himself and fuck everything else. He knows he can’t, but in the fleeting solitude and privacy of the car, safe under the never ending night sky, Brad wants with a force that makes his heart hurt.

**  
**

At Grand Junction, instead of taking the l-70 to Glenwood Springs and Capitol Peak, Brad gets on the 50E going southeast.

244 miles to Canon City.

**  
**

It’s about 5am when Brad arrives. The sun isn’t up yet, Canon City is quiet and still, not a soul in the main street. He drives through the town at a sedate pace, finds a small park just outside the town limits and stops there. He climbs into the backseat, lies down with his feet hanging out through the window, and falls asleep immediately.

He wakes up with sunlight in his eyes and a bird perched on his right boot. Brad frowns at it, confused, but the bird flies away before he can make himself move. His watch indicates 6:33am. He gets his feet back inside and sits up. Distantly, he can hear the sporadic sounds of the town waking up; a truck rumbling past, a dog barking. Closer, there’s running water and birdsongs, the gentle rustling of leaves.

Brad feels strangely well-rested. He’s also famished. Instead of asking himself what he thinks he is going to achieve by being here, he exits the car, stretches his legs, his neck, his back. The bird comes fluttering back. It lands on a tree branch, eye-level with Brad, who offers it a feral smile. The bird tilts its head, perplexed. Brad huffs a laugh, and gets back behind the wheel. He needs breakfast.

Canon City, as it turns out, isn’t spoiled for choice in the gastronomy department. Brad circles the town twice before finally stopping in front of the only open diner. Out of three in total. From the outside, it doesn’t look much better than the one Brad is fairly certain was abandoned but the lights are on, there’s people inside, and Brad hasn’t eaten in over twelve hours. He gets out of the car and walks in.

Brad is used to the ambient noise of conversations suddenly dropping to a hush when he enters a room. That it happens here, though, takes him by surprise. It’s gradual, a new voice muted for every step he takes. By the time Brad reaches the counter, you could hear a pin drop. Nine hours away from Salt Lake City, over a day away from New York, alone, dressed in civilian clothes, and yet.

He grits his teeth as he sits down. So much for freedom. Fucking idiot. What did he expect? For the world to get on with his own fleeting moment of weakness and indulge his wishful thinking? If he were prone to giving up, he would almost be tempted to get back to the car and leave, as a tiredness heavier than a night of driving excuses threatens to overwhelm him. Unfortunately, he’s a stubborn asshole and the smell of eggs coming from the kitchen has his stomach clenching painfully. He grabs a menu.

It’s only a minute before a rough, “Hey, what do you want?” interrupts his thoughts. Brad looks back behind the counter. A stocky brown man stands next to the sink, notepad in his hand. His apron is filthy white, complete with a name tag saying “Anthony” on it. He gives Brad an even look, refusing to drop his gaze. Brad doesn’t often meet people who look him straight in the eye. The open challenge feels almost refreshing.

“Hamburger with fries,” he says, pushing the menu away from him. “And apple pie for dessert.”

“Sorry, we’re out.” Anthony doesn’t look very sorry.

“Pancakes?”

“Out.”

Brad nods. He knows this game. Unfortunately for Anthony, Brad’s better at playing it. He takes care to keep his voice light, with a hint of amusement. “So what are you not out of, then, Anthony?”

His host doesn’t even think twice. “Oatmeal.”

Brad nods, satisfied. “Sounds great. Make sure to make it with extra honey. And get me some coffee.”

Anthony stares at him for a second, but Brad ignores it. Instead, he grabs the newspaper lying on the stool next to him. August 1958. Almost a year old. He opens it to the page with the crosswords and discovers to his satisfaction that it is only half filled out. He reaches for the pen stashed in the inner pocket of his coat – a present from the General upon him joining in the unit – when Anthony places a cup of coffee so forcefully on the counter some of the liquid spills over and on Brad’s sleeve.

If there was quiet in the diner before, it is now perfectly silent. Brad is aware that everybody is looking at him, looking at how he will react, how he will punish Anthony. He could kill him. It would be easy. Reach over the counter, put his head in a headlock and turn, turn, turn until the neck breaks – Brad knows. He has done it before. Officers have killed for less than spilt coffee.

Instead, he calmly reaches into his coat pocket again and retrieves a white handkerchief. He cleans up the mess, and says, placid: “Now, Anthony, you should be a bit more careful with that.” He looks at him to bring his point across. It takes a long second before Anthony nods. “And make sure there’s a fresh cup of coffee waiting for me when I get back."

He doesn’t wait to see Anthony’s reaction. Instead, he gets up and walks to the toilet.  He succeeds in getting the stain on his sleeve out, and is ready to head back to the restaurant when he hears a voice coming from the kitchen.

“Why the fuck do you have Brad fucking Colbert sitting in your dining room, Poke?” the voice sounds scruffy and irritated.

Quietly, Brad exists the bathroom. He walks towards the back entrance of the kitchen when he hears a second voice answering. Brad stops just before the kitchen door, waiting for the discussion to continue.

“Fuck if I know, okay? He just showed up.” Anthony, Brad thinks. "What do you want me to do? White Boy just won't leave. I tell him we're out of everything, he's fine with it. I even spilt coffee on him. Damn, for a second I was sure he'd kill me. But no, calm as fuck. That guy really is something else."

"Can't you tell him business is closed?" Brad's quiet chuckle joins Poke's laugh.

"Yeah, sure, homeboy. I'll just go to Brad Colbert and tell him we won't serve him before casually getting refills for every other motherfucker in the room. Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"But–"

"No buts. White boy can kill us all if he wants to, do you understand? To this guy, we're worth less than cockroaches, and as easy to dispose of."

“Fuck, this is fucking everything up.” The other guy sounds highly annoyed.

“It’s okay. We’ll move them tonight instead. It’ll push things, but they’ll manage.”

After a small pause, Anthony continues. “How are they holding up?” He sounds worried.

“They’re just kids, you know? How do you explain to a ten-year-old that he’s being hunted?”

Easy, Brad thinks. Be brave. Protect yourself.

"Okay, I gotta go back and keep an eye on Captain Aryan. Drop the kids tonight. I'll call Paps to let him know they’re coming."

Brad doesn’t wait around. He's heard enough.

He walks back to his seat at the counter and notes with satisfaction that Anthony - Poke - has indeed placed a new cup of coffee on the counter. Motherfucker even added a little bag of sugar.

Brad sits down, picks up the cup. Stumbling upon an organised smuggling operation completely by chance is pretty much hitting the jackpot. He should go back to base, let his superior know what he heard. They will apprehend the smugglers at the border. It’s their job, after all. People will praise Brad, Godfather will be informed of his excellent performance and everybody will be happy with him. All for the Reich, click your heels, salute, good job.

If Brad is being honest with himself, though, as is becoming alarmingly frequent, the idea of turning kids in isn’t nearly as appealing as it should be. It brings a bitter taste to the back of his mouth that a sip of coffee doesn’t wash away. There are images and feelings in the back of Brad’s mind that he never thinks about, but just because he ignores them doesn’t mean they’re not there.

What would have happened if someone had reported Mrs Landingham?

_Protect yourself_.

Passing intel like this would be the safest option: arrest them, dismantle the whole organisation, get praised, rise further. The better you are, the safer you'll be. If it gets a handful of kids killed in the process, well, accidents will happen. Collateral damage is acceptable. All for the Reich.

The cup clinks harshly against the counter when Brad sets it down. He takes a deep breath.

Or, and his blood rushes madly at the sheer thought of it, he could do nothing. Not go back to base, not call. Finish breakfast, get out, forget the entire exchange.

Doing nothing shouldn't seem as monumental as it does to Brad now, but the mere idea floors him.

Doing nothing would amount to treason.

Civilians might get away with turning a blind eye, but for Brad, right here, right now, it would get him court martialed, possibly executed. Not having executive powers or legal grounds for action in the Neutral Zone won’t excuse retaining information that _would_ be valid outside of it.

Now that the idea is there, though, he can’t shake it, can’t shake the notion that it is the right thing to do.

He should have gone to Capitol Peak, he thinks dryly, then pauses.

He should have gone to Capitol Peak. That was the plan, what he told Otsu. As far as everyone knows, Capitol Peak is where he is. Nobody would expect him to have learnt of a smuggling operation taking place 200 miles away. If he chose not to report any knowledge of it, nobody would know.

The realisation leaves him reeling with a mix of relief and bafflement. It can’t be that simple. Everyone always knows what he does. It’s in reports, it’s in the papers, it’s been decided long ago by people other than himself.

Brad turns around, gaze sweeping over the diner to assess the other customers. They could be hostiles but they’re avoiding his gaze, doing their best to not notice and not be noticed in return. The only person here who looked him in the eye is Anthony, and Anthony sure as fuck isn’t going to spill anything to anyone.

Brad is a soldier, he follows orders. He doesn’t get to choose, doesn’t get to decide for himself.

Brad is the adopted son of a Jewish couple having breakfast alone in a city where people are trying to help children escape a regime that would see them murdered.

He can either let them, or not.

Yesterday, half blind from flashes and deaf from the cheers of the crowd, he had thought _I just want to be me_. Now, with the opportunity dropped in his lap without warning, Brad realises with dismay that he’s not sure who that is.

A bowl of oatmeal shoved under his nose snaps him out of his thoughts. Brad looks up to find Anthony staring at him. He stares back, searches Anthony's face for any traces of _something_ and finds nothing. No sign of nervousness or fear. Anthony’s mask is good, it doesn’t let anything filter through. Brad should know. His own is good, too.

He ponders over it while eating his oatmeal. He thinks about it whilst paying, ignoring the way Anthony's eyes grow huge when they see the sizeable tip Brad leaves. By the time he's back in the car, Brad’s made a decision.

He is not a man who just lets things happen.

-

The problem with civilians, Brad thinks while he's hiding behind the stinking garbage dumpster of Poke's diner, is that they are so horribly imprecise. All Anthony said was that the deal would happen tonight. Which could mean anything between dusk to dawn. Which, in turn, means that Brad has been sitting next to the garbage for three hours now.

He's used to waiting, though. Patiently hiding out until the enemy appears is one of the things he's best at. And so he waits.

He waits until a car without headlights pulls up next to the garbage. He waits while three people - one grown-up, two kids - get out. He waits. He sees Anthony coming out from the diner, rushing the kids inside. The car disappears. Silence settles again. Still, Brad waits.

A short while later, a second car appears.  As soon as it stops, Anthony and the kids come back out. The kids are placed in the car, and Brad watches it disappear towards the mountains. It is only once the sound of the engine has faded that he gets up and enters the diner.

His approach is so quiet that Anthony freezes when Brad speaks up. "I thought I told you to be more careful, Anthony. Poke, was it?"

And this, Brad thinks, is where Anthony’s mask breaks. He can see all his emotions playing on his face - incomprehension, terror, panic, and finally the resigned blankness of people who realise how well and truly fucked they are.

Brad walks behind the counter. It’s spotless, except for two lonely plates. There's leftovers on them - apple pie and ice cream - and for a second, Brad is relieved that the kids got a good meal in before heading off.

He pours himself a cup of coffee and turns back to Anthony, who is wearily eying his every move.

"Let’s start again. Good evening, Anthony. I thought we could have a talk." Brad takes a sip of coffee. Freshly brewed, and actual coffee. If he had any remaining doubts about Anthony's involvement in the resistance, the coffee would have settled it. Nobody besides smugglers and officers has access to real coffee, and Anthony is definitely not an officer.

Instead of relaxing, Anthony takes a quick step towards Brad. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Brad quietly says. "I’m really only here to talk." He takes another sip, cherishing the smooth taste.

"White boy wants to talk, huh?” Anthony says at last, holding his chin up. “Alright, talk. What the fuck are you doing here?"

Brad tilts his head, thoughtful. “Well,” he says, “right now, I’m considering helping myself to some apple pie, and hoping you’re not going to play dumb. It doesn’t suit you, and it won’t work on me." Brad casts another look at the apple pie - it does look delicious - but decides against it. It’s impossible to interrogate people with a mouth full of food and maintain dignity. Instead, Brad continues. "Besides, you’re asking the wrong question." He looks at Anthony, who is leaning against a table, arms crossed over his chest.

Anthony rolls his eyes. "Okay, let's play it your way. Enlighten me. What are you gonna do?"

This time, Brad is prepared for Anthony's face to fall. "Nothing."

Anthony chuckles darkly. "Nothing. Right."

Brad hums in agreement and takes another sip of his coffee. It is damn good coffee.

“So you want to tell me that you, Brad fucking Colbert, golden child, elite soldier, yadda yadda yadda, will do nothing even though he’s found out I move people around?" Anthony continues after a while, when he realizes that Brad won’t say any more.

"First of all, it's not just you, is it?" Brad quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at Anthony. "I've seen two cars. I know their license plates. Finding out who drove them will be an easy job. So, careful, Anthony, you’re not the only one at stake here."

Anthony's face pales, and Brad knows he hit a nerve. He rinses the empty coffee cup and places it in the sink.

"Second, not only am I going to stand by and watch as you move people and, I suspect, goods out of and into the Reich, I’m even going to do more than that. I’m going to help you."

There’s a beat, before Anthony laughs, short and humourless. "Yeah, sure. You’re kidding, right?”

Brad says nothing, and Anthony laughs again.

“You’re gonna help us, sure. I'm just gonna let Brad Colbert join my merry band. You realise that’s not gonna happen, right? I know you boys have your ideas about us brown men, but we do have brains and we even use them. I’m not letting you anywhere near my business. No fucking way.”

“I’m already here,” Brad points out.

“Yeah, and you’ve got no leverage, and the risk of creating a shitstorm of epic proportions if anyone finds out about an officer of the Reich conducting any kind of operation in the Neutral Zone,” Anthony retorts. He is not giving an inch. Brad would almost like him if he could. “You need an in so you can sell us out the first opportunity you got. That ain’t gonna be me, no way, white boy. You can have me, but I'm not gonna let you have anyone else."

"So this is about trust?"

Anthony gapes at him. "What the fuck is the matter with you? Of course, motherfucker. Did you really believe I would trust you?” Anthony’s face is so incredulous, it’s almost comical.

What gets Brad, though, is the absence of anger. If Anthony was aggressive before, he is now all disbelief, as if the mere concept of trusting Brad was so absurd he cannot believe anybody would even suggest it. Brad feels oddly unbalanced. He opens his mouth, but finds nothing to defend himself with.

“Boy,” Anthony laughs, dripping sarcasm, “we're like eight hours from your little base, ten hours from your beloved Mother Reich, and still, everybody knows your fucking name. In case you haven't noticed, you're kind of a big deal."

The full meaning of the words dawn on Brad in a way it never did before. For all that he feels powerless, he _is_ a big deal. He’s made it that way. In his quest to protect himself, he has turned into the very thing he was hiding from.  It’s his own thoughts from the plane, fully formed, and thrown at him by someone else. He should have seen this coming, yet, somehow, didn’t. It leaves him feeling queasy.

But he can’t renounce now; not his position, not his convictions. He has been honest, he has been as friendly as he can afford, and it is not enough. He was expecting negotiations, but Anthony refuses to even give him that. There must be something, some way to convince him that Brad wants to help, that he _needs_ to help. He just needs a chance, just one chance to start making things right.

Here's a thing everyone knows about Brad Colbert: he doesn't do things by half.

In interrogations, the only way for a prisoner to buy his safety is to give something valuable that he can’t take back. There’s only one thing Brad has that he can’t take back. He doesn’t let himself hesitate. He grabs a napkin, takes out his pen, reads the words out loud as he writes them down.

"Sarah and Simon Morgenthal, 4660 La Jolla Village Drive, San Diego, California, 92122." He hasn't spoken their names out loud in fifteen years, and saying them now makes him nauseous, as if he just committed a horrible crime.

"What?" Anthony stares at him, baffled.

Brad repeats the names and address, noting how it doesn't get easier the second time either. Some secrets are just not meant to be spoken out loud. He slides the napkin toward Anthony.

"What is this? You're giving me the address of one family you spared?" Anthony says, making no move to take it.

Brad closes his eyes, throat working. "Just look them up. I'll be back tomorrow to see what you’ve found out."

In a way, this is a test. If the resistance is good enough to find out what he's been hiding, they might actually have a chance. If they can't - well, then it might not be worth joining them.

He has the sudden urge to leave. He told Anthony what he never should tell anybody, placed his life into the hands of a guy he doesn't know. He tells himself that he is not fleeing - Brad Colbert doesn’t flee. Still. He shoots another glance at Anthony, who is watching him warily, and walks out without another word.

Tony watches Colbert leave as silently as he arrived. After a minute, he picks up the phone and dials a number that shouldn’t exist.

________________

 

Brad stays away from Canon City the next day. He hikes Cottonwood Peak to keep himself too busy to think. It doesn’t work as well as he hoped, and by sunset all he has gotten from it is a grating, simmering frustration, and a sharp pain in his right hand when he slipped and scratched his palm raw catching himself on the rocky terrain.

 

Every life has a few Before and After events. For Brad, two of those happened when he was eight and too young to comprehend what it meant. Yesterday became one in the seconds it took to speak two names and an address, and this time he is old enough to realize it. He only wishes he knew what comes next.

 

He’s been out nine hours by the time he circles back to his car, sore and hungry and still thrumming with energy. As the sun lowers on the horizon, he shoves the never ending loop of what-ifs and what-nows to the back of his mind, focuses on the road and drives, the leather of the wheel hard and smooth against his makeshift bandage.

 

The diner is empty when he parks next to it, only half the lights still on, dimmed by the pulled-down sunscreen shades. That’s good. The front door is unlocked. It swings open easily when Brad pushes it, and that’s good, too. Anthony is expecting him. It means he’s found something. Brad’s pulse quickens in anticipation.

 

His entrance is met with pointed silence and forced casualness. Behind the counter, Anthony is busy drying and putting away glasses and plates, and barely acknowledges him. The three patrons sitting at the far end of the room only pause for a second before resuming their hushed conversation, only betrayed by the way their hands suddenly cannot seem to settle, fingers tapping restlessly against the table, a mug, their legs.

 

Brad walks to the counter and picks a stool close to the wall. Anthony knows he’s here. No need to make his presence more obvious than it already is.

 

It’s over an hour before the three men in the corner leave, sparing Brad a quick glance. Anthony wishes them a good night before returning to his drying. He hasn’t said a word to Brad, although he hasn’t been passively aggressive either. He’s simply biding his time, a speculative gleam in his eyes when he glances at Brad.

 

It frustrates Brad that he can’t get a better read on him. As it is, the man’s cool exterior grates on nerves already frayed from a day of relentless reflection and anticipation. Brad bears it. He did place the ball in Anthony’s court yesterday.

 

Eventually, after almost two hours of complete silence, Anthony speaks.

 

“What happened to your hand?” He nods at the thin piece of cloth wrapped around Brad’s right hand, speckled with brownish red where blood seeped through and dried.

 

“I slipped,” Brad replies, trying for nonchalant despite the buzzing under his skin.

 

“Huh. I guess you do that a lot lately.”

 

Brad grits his teeth, the comment more astute than he is comfortable with. Anthony watches him for a minute, his movements just as fluid despite his attention being elsewhere. He dries and puts away four more glasses, then takes pity on Brad.

 

“Alright,” he says, tossing away the now damp cloth. “Sarah and Simon Morgenthal, 4660 La Jolla Village Drive, San Diego, California.”

 

And just like that, Brad’s entire awareness expands and narrows all at once, adrenaline sharpening his senses and grounding him at the same time. He doesn’t tense. His shoulders remain loose, his fists relaxed, and his back casually straight.

 

His heart pumps so hard he feels it in his fingertips.

 

“They don’t live there anymore,” Anthony continues, the way he’s looking at Brad close to scrutiny. “Haven’t for a while.”

 

Brad keeps his face as blank as he can. He should have considered the possibility. They were Jews. The Japanese Pacific States might be more lax in its policies than the Greater Reich, but the late 40s to late 50s weren’t a good decade for Jews anywhere. He nods, takes it in. It isn’t that big of a surprise, really.

 

“They moved in early 45. Took some digging, but one of my boys got good people skills. Got the neighbours talking. Turns out they moved to Page, Arizona. Bit of a nothing town, they probably figured they’d be safer there. Lots of Native Americans in Arizona, too,” Anthony says, casually. “They’re easier to identify than Jews. Makes for a good warning system. When the Indians start disappearing, it’s time to move, y’know.”

 

Perhaps it shouldn’t be more surprising than the news that his parents might not have been alive anymore, but it is. They are alive. They only went somewhere else. It seems so… mundane. Air rushes out of Brad’s lungs in a weak, relieved sigh.

 

Anthony’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t ask. “Now, the Morgenthals might be very nice people, but I couldn’t understand what made them so special when my guy called me to tell me all this,” he goes on. “So I ask, is that all? And I can’t tell him that Brad fucking Colbert walked into my diner and told me to look into these people, but I try to convey that there must be something, anything else.”

 

Anthony pauses again. He’s getting worked up, his words coming out faster, tone clipped. Brad can’t figure out why. Despite knowing the missing piece of information in Anthony’s tale, he has no idea what to expect. His entire body thrums, braced for anything, as he looks Anthony in the eyes and waits.

 

“So my guy goes,” Anthony continues at last, glowering at Brad. “Well they had a kid, a son, who died in late 44. Bradley. Neighbour said that’s why they moved. Couldn’t stay in the house where they raised their little boy. And I think, no way,” Anthony hisses. “No fucking way. This has to be a coincidence, right? Except - what are the fucking chances?”

 

He’s not screaming, but there is cold fury in every syllable that passes his lips as he leans in, getting in Brad’s face despite the counter between them.

 

“Anything special about that kid, I ask. Adopted, my guy tells me. They got him when he was a baby, maybe two months old. He was eight when he died. Didn’t look like them at all, blond hair, blue eyes, but the neighbour said they were the happiest family. Such a shame what happened.”

 

He stops again, and for a very long minute neither he nor Brad seem to be able to speak. Anthony’s story hangs heavy in the air, enormous in its implications, a trail of buried bread crumbs dug up to lead them both to the inevitable conclusion. Brad is certain that if he moves a single finger, Anthony will hit him. He would hit back before he could stop himself, escalating the situation and ruining his entire gamble before it got a chance to become something more than temporary insanity. Brad keeps very still.

 

The truth is, even if he wanted to move, he couldn’t.

 

For the first time in over fifteen years, the person before him knows who he really is. And it was Brad who set this in motion, he was the one who willingly offered information when it wasn’t required or even wanted. He wanted to with a desperation that is starting to taste like folly now that the consequence is staring him in the face with thinly veiled disgust. He feels defenseless, vulnerable. It makes his stomach churn and bile rise in the back of his throat, a fight or flight response triggered by the sheer existence of the anomaly that Anthony has become.

 

Brad’s breath grows shallow, his palms sweaty. He isn’t a violent person, but his instincts whisper that he should kill Anthony now, leave, and forget about all of this. He cannot stay in control if someone has as much power over him as Anthony now does. He has to stay in control.

 

“You’re a Jew!” It comes out of Anthony like an accusation, loud and inescapable, tearing Brad out of his thoughts faster than a bullet to the chest. Brad stands up so fast his chair clatters to the ground. His eyes are wide and wild, his fists clenched, his entire body coiled and ready for blows that can’t seem to come. A life of training for war never prepared him to hear those words aimed at him, scorching as a brand.

 

Brad was trained to kill Jews, not be one.

 

“You’re a fucking Jew,” Anthony repeats slowly, and there is anger in his voice and on his face, but he leans back and away and his eyes fill with horror as they rest on Brad, who stands frozen and terrified, caught out like a deer in the headlights. And isn’t that a fucking kick in the head. The cognitive dissonance alone makes Anthony’s brain hurt.

 

Brad stares at this man, this brown stranger who runs a shabby diner in the middle of the mountains and _sees_ him. For a desperate second, he wants to beg Anthony to let him stay. He tries to tame the chaos in his head, get a grip of himself, formulate a rebuttal, a defense, anything –

 

“Do you have any puff pastry?” is what comes out of his mouth.

 

The conversation’s dangerous momentum screeches to a halt as Brad stands there, wrong-footed and awkward while Anthony gawks at him, speechless. The tension dissolves instantly, leaving utter blankness in its place as they stare at each other at a loss, both equally taken aback by the question.

 

Eventually, Anthony must decide that he has entered some kind of alternate reality, incredulity wiping every other emotion off his face as he gestures wordlessly toward the kitchen, effectively inviting Brad to make himself at home.

 

Brad hesitates for a beat before his feet make the decision for him and he finds himself behind the counter and into the kitchen, Anthony trailing a couple of paces behind.

 

The room looks oddly spacious, despite being crammed with dull steel appliances and more utensils and _things_ that Brad ever knew existed to make food. It’s clean, the faint smell of flower-scented chemicals lingering in the air, the fluorescent lights overhead soft enough to make the space look more welcoming than clinical.

 

Brad’s eyes instinctively seek out an oven, the fridge, and baking utensils, his body moving without any conscious input. He is distantly aware of where this is leading, but something in him holds back, stops him from acknowledging the half-formed intention for fear of ruining it.

 

Anthony posts himself in the corner closest to the door, leans against the wall with his arms crossed. His eyes follow Brad’s every move, though he lets the man roam freely, opening and closing the fridge, tinkering with the buttons of the oven.

 

“What types of cheeses do you have?” Colbert asks eventually. He has taken a ball of dough out of the fridge, set the oven to preheat, and is now meticulously going through the drawers.

 

Anthony watches him, bemused. “Mozzarella, Cheddar,” he lists. “Parmesan, Jack. A bit of feta left.”

 

“No Gouda?”

 

Now, Anthony has seen some strange shit over the years, but seeing Brad Colbert’s face fall in quiet disappointment, even _sadness_ , over the contents of his cheese cave has to be the most bizarre experience of his life. Colbert stops his search for God knows what to shoot him a confused look and Jesus fucking Christ what does he want Anthony to do? Apologize?

 

“Nah, dog,” Anthony says, eyebrows raised in utter disbelief.

 

Colbert flounders for a minute, or as close to it as a man like him can — his movements slow, eyes going unfocused for a blink, hands holding empty air — before returning to the fridge with newfound determination. He emerges holding a piece of Jack cheese.

 

The entire situation is so outside normal parameters that Anthony forgets to be scared of the SS officer currently rifling through his knives. Standing there, hunched over in civilian clothes, hands quick and oddly delicate as he sort through food and utensils, he doesn’t cut as intimidating a figure as the lofty, lethal soldier on the posters.

 

Anthony figures it is as good a time as any to ask what the fuck he’s doing.

 

“Can I ask what the fuck you’re doing?”

 

Colbert inhales as if to speak and deflates immediately. He swallows, inhales again. His hands handle the knife with ease as he starts chopping cheese.

 

“My mother used to make this,” he says, voice quiet. “For me. When I was a child.”

 

“Your mother,” Anthony repeats, steeling himself. “Sarah.” No need to phrase it as a question at this point.

 

It’s almost a whole five seconds before the answer comes anyway.

 

“Yes.”

 

Anthony sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and pushes himself off the wall to pace. Circumstantial evidence and absence of denial is vastly different from hearing it straight from the horse’s fucking mouth. This is real. Scharführer Colbert is in his kitchen baking Jewish pastries that his Jewish mother used to make for him. And he came to Anthony because he wants _to help_. Jesus fucking Christ. Anthony isn’t the type to avoid facing reality – although given the past decades, he’s had to learn to pick his battles and make do – but this? Is a lot to take in even for him.

 

For all he knows, this could be some brilliantly fucked-up elaborate scheme to play on his sympathies and magnanimously offer him a bullet in the head in exchange later on, thank you for your service, it was grand. Or perhaps Colbert is just crazy. Perhaps he genuinely believes what he’s saying and any minute now he’s going to snap out of it and strangle Anthony with a dishrag, who the fuck knows.

It’s tempting to reject what is happening in front of him, keep his faith and his sanity with what he knows and attempt to gently escort Colbert out, praying he will never cross paths with the man again. But Anthony has had years to get intimately acquainted with fear - his own as well as others’.

 

Brad Colbert is not the kind of man to show fear, possibly even feel it, to some extent – Anthony doesn’t know much about Nazi School, but he’s seen enough of who and what comes out of them to know that you don’t get out of there with your head screwed on straight and your heart fully functional. As he combines and blends and brushes, though, Colbert keeps glancing at him, never leaves him out of his peripheral vision, not even for a second. His eyes are clear, but there is a hint of nervousness there, a hesitancy at odds with the man’s stature and everything they both know he represents. The aggression that radiated from him only minutes ago has gone completely, soothed away by the care he’s pouring into his baking.

 

Caught up in watching the man himself, Anthony hasn’t even paid attention to what exactly it is that he is making. A brief look is enough to identify the small triangles evenly spaced on a baking sheet. Of course he’s making bourekas.

 

The oven preheat indicator light switches off. Colbert notices immediately, and he opens the oven door and gently slides the baking sheet in before closing it again. Once done, he looks around until he spots the tiny kitchen timer sitting on top of the freezer. The timer is set for twenty minutes and put on top of the oven.

 

Now that Colbert’s hands aren’t busy anymore, Anthony unconsciously shifts closer to the door that leads back into the diner. He and Colbert need to have a very unpleasant conversation, and he’d rather not do it in here.

 

Oblivious, Colbert doesn’t even pause, only goes back to the countertop and starts cleaning. The utensils are deposited in the sink, cloth and cleaning products appear as Anthony watches, bemused once again, as Colbert refuses to conform to his expectations. Getting the kitchen spotlessly clean is an affair of a few minutes, and when Colbert is done you wouldn’t suspect anybody had been here but for the faint smell of warm cheese starting to escape from the oven.

 

Finally deprived of any task to perform – any reason to stall – Colbert stands in the middle of the room, tall and awkward, with a look on his face so jarringly familiar that Anthony has to stop himself from reacting to it. It’s the look the kids Lilley brings him have after he’s fed them dinner and before he shuffles them to another car for another ten hour drive; the one that make their eyes widen while the rest of their faces tighten, beseeching even as they’re trying their best to hold themselves together.

 

It’s the look that says: please, don’t send me away.

 

Anthony would bet good money that the last image Colbert’s parents have of their son is a close variation of what he’s seeing now. It wrenches a sigh from his chest as his mind tries to accommodate the enormity of what it means. He passes hand over his face.

 

There’s few things you can’t fake in life. Anthony might not be an expert, but in his not-so limited experience, being abandoned as a child leaves scars that you can cover up but can’t feign. Brad Colbert is a terrific actor either way, but in this – in this, Anthony is willing to give him the opportunity to explain himself.

 

“I want to know everything,” he says, at last. “From your very first memory. Your entire life story. No lie, no omission, no sparing my feelings.”

 

Colbert doesn’t protest, doesn’t react in any way.

 

“You want me to trust you, I gotta know exactly who I’m dealing with and what made you come here. Not negotiable. And I reserve the right to tell you to fuck off if I feel you’re not being straight with me.” He straightens, crosses his arms, looks Colbert in the eye.

 

Colbert holds his gaze, then tilts his head in a nod. “That’s fair.”

 

He gestures to the door, question written on his face, and follows when Anthony steps back into the diner and takes his place behind the counter while he sits on a stool on the other side.

 

Brad speaks for hours. He talks about the orphanage, Adolf Hitler School, SS tryouts, the Panamerican Games. Glory, Gore, Pain. Always first, always the best. He gets interrupted early on by the timer, waits for Anthony’s permission before walking in the kitchen to turn the oven off and take the pastry out to cool. Anthony asks only a handful a questions, but they are pointed and pertinent. He is relentless but not unkind, for which Brad is grateful.

 

By the time his tale catches up to the present, to him sitting right there in this diner, it’s after three in the morning, two mugs and an empty pot of coffee sit on the counter between them, and Anthony hasn’t said a word in over an hour. Brad gets up and heads to the kitchen again, leaving Anthony to gather his thoughts and taking a moment to do the same. Telling your own life is a strange endeavour. The years granted Brad emotional distance and hindsight, but describing the memories out loud shrunk that distance to a hair’s breadth until Brad found himself numerous times caught in the midst of his own remembered emotions and a strange sense of empathy for this stranger going through all the things Brad went through.

 

He grabs the long-since cold baking sheet and carries it to the counter. Anthony looks on for a minute before heading over to the coffee maker. His movements are slow but careful, the way he ignores Brad as Brad joins him behind the counter to get a couple of plates anything but accidental. Brad lets himself see it as a hopeful sign.

 

Once the coffee pot is filled again, Brad pours them both a cup before helping himself to a boureka. The crust is soft and thick, the filling savoury and rich. Brad can’t tell if it tastes like his mother’s bourekas because it does or because his mind is still brimming with memories from his childhood, painting the world warmer, familiar shades.

 

Across from him, Anthony nurses his own cup of coffee, brows furrowed, mulling over the past few hours. All through his tale, Anthony observed him closely, but now he’s turned inward, paying Brad almost no attention at all. A decision is forthcoming, Brad can see it brewing. He waits.

 

After another few, long minutes, Anthony finally lets out an explosive sigh, eyes snapping back to Brad accusingly. Where his expression was all fury and aggression before, it is now somewhat softened, frustration instead of anger, a twist to his mouth and a light in his eyes that could be compassion, could be pity.

 

“People fuck other people up, dog, it’s what we do,” he says.

 

It doesn’t sound like an attempt to soothe Brad’s feelings.

 

“Humanity,” Anthony goes on. “We do great things, we create things that shouldn’t be possible, fucking miracles, and then we use them to fuck each other up. That H bomb? The brains of the scientists who created this thing? The level of intelligence to build something like this? It’s out of this world, dog. And look what we did with it. Killed millions. Because that’s what we do. I care about people, alright, and I believe we have the potential to be some sort of extraordinary species, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Except we won’t, because we don’t know when to stop. We don’t know how to fucking quit while we’re ahead. We gotta keep going and fuck each other up.”

 

He stops, lips pursed. When he doesn’t continue, Brad deems it safe enough to nudge him.

 

“Is there a point to this rousing speech, Anthony?”

 

Anthony doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, my point is, I’m looking at you and I’m seeing someone who wants to quit while he’s ahead, and that bothers me, dog.”

 

He stares at Brad, and he does look troubled; mouth tight, brows furrowed and a hesitant light in his eyes, wary and curious all at once. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

 

Brad nods, conceding the point. He can understand. He places a boureka on a plate, tucks a paper napkin underneath it.

 

“You could trust me,” he says, setting the plate in front of Anthony.

 

Anthony looks down at the little pastry and back to Brad. He huffs, shakes his head in disbelief, but doesn’t immediately object. He picks the small triangle up and takes a bite.

 

Brad’s heart thumps very hard, and for the first time in a very long time, it isn’t with dread.

 

“How is it?” and damn if he doesn’t suddenly sound like a virgin on her wedding night.

 

Anthony stares at him blankly as he chews. “Foul,” he says, before taking another bite.

 

It takes a second for Brad’s lips to curl up, stretching slowly wider as he eyes light up, transforming his entire face even as he straightens to look Anthony up and down, eyebrow raised in mock affront. He looks like an asshole, smug and teasing and more genuine than Anthony doubts anyone has seen him in years. It’s a good look on him.

 

Anthony shakes his head, tops off both their coffees. Neither of them will be getting any sleep tonight.

 

________________

 

####  **1960**

 

“For the last time, Robert, there’s nothing wrong with your dick but if you keep calling me I’m seriously going to think you want me to suck it and that shit’s just not gonna fly, buddy.”

“Talking to yourself again, Ray?” Tony says wryly, unphased by Ray’s greeting. He’s used to it by now. They all are.

“Poke! Pal!” Ray’s tone goes from weary to delighted in a blink, the sound of it barely distorted over the phone. “I have to maintain a cover that makes sure people don’t call this number too often. It’s smart thinking!”

“Uh-huh,” Tony hums absently as he shifts his grip on the phone. He’s still not sure how he’s going to play this one.

“What can I do for you, my friend?”

Poke doesn’t let himself hesitate. “I need a line to Mike.”

Ray gasps, all fake hurt. “You call me only to let me know it’s someone else you want? That’s cold, buddy!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure Richard and his dick would be happy to comfort you.”

“It’s Robert, and his wart-infested dick isn’t getting anywhere near me, yo, what do you take me for. I’m a delicate man, I need romance! Flowers!”

Poke just shakes his head. “You need help, is what you need. Can you get me a secure line?”

“Can I get him a secure line, he asks,” Ray mutters, the sounds of buttons being pushed and cables being plugged in and out trickling down the line. At one point, it sounds as if something heavy falls down, but Ray doesn’t acknowledge it, and neither does Poke. Ray knows what he’s doing, even if it doesn’t sound like it.  

“Anything I should know?” Ray asks, his voice showing no trace of his usual banter and humour.

Poke inhales deeply to give himself time to consider. He’s been asking himself the same question for the past two months.

“Mike’ll call you soon with the details, the decision isn’t up to me,” he says. “But there may be some major change soon.”

“Good change or bad change?” Ray sounds just a little nervous, and Poke knows he’s already making plans, taking inventory of what could be compromised, what he would need to bring with him or burn, and what could be left behind if he had to leave at a moment’s notice. It wouldn’t be the first time they had to start from scratch.

“I want to say good,” Tony replies, slowly. He sounds thoughtful enough that Ray stops messing with his cables for a second.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, dog. This could change fucking everything.”

“Alright,” Ray says and doesn’t ask for details, “transferring you to the boss now. Be good and stay safe, homes.”

“You, too.”

There’s a click, a three second silence, a scratch, another click, and finally the ringing tone. Poke glances around. The diner is empty, all doors locked, opening time still an hour away. He thinks he should feel tired, but instead he’s brimming with energy.

“Hello?” Mike’s voice comes crystal clear, as if he were sitting right next to Poke. Ray Person might be a basketcase, but he’s a genius when it comes to comms. Poke has no idea how he does it.

“Hey Mike, it’s Poke.”

“Morning, Tony. How are you?” Mike always asks, and always genuinely wants to know the answer. Poke loves him for it.

“Good, dog, same old. You heard from Pappy?” he says.

“Yeah, he called in with the sitrep. You’re becoming pretty good at this. Even Rudy stopped worrying, and you know what a yenta he is when Pappy’s out and about.”

Poke laughs. “Yeah, well, either we get these kids out or they’ll end up in camps or dead. Pretty compelling reason not to fuck up.”

There’s a moment where neither of them speaks and, once again, Poke is hit by the reality of what they are doing. Smuggling kids out because they’d get killed otherwise. Jesus. What kind of world do they live in. How did they get here. Poke pushes the thoughts away. He’s doing all he can.

“So what can I do for you?” Mike asks, because they might like each other, but they don’t do social calls.

Poke doesn’t let himself hesitate. He had time to change his mind and he didn’t. No point beating around the bush now. He and Brad talked about it. Brad will be going back to New York, and Poke knows what an asset to their organization he is. He can’t just let him go back to his old life.

“I need a favor,” Poke says.

“What do you need?” Mike asks, no trace of hesitation.

“I need you to trust me.”

And there it is. A beat, before Mike drawls, “That sounds ominous.” And Poke has to laugh, because Mike has no idea. Hell, Poke tries not to think about it because when he does he can barely believe it himself.

“I’m sending you a guy to work with you, but I need you to not freak out and please be nice to him.”

Mike is silent, for just a second too long. “Poke, you know what kind of life we’re living. We don’t have a use for princesses, no matter how pretty they are.”

For a second, Poke marvels at the conversation he’s having. “No, Mike. Believe me. That guy is the hardest motherfucker I’ve ever met. Hell, I hope I don’t have to do half of the things he did to survive. It’s not that. I’m just saying - be gentle.”

Mike just snorts. “Poke, seriously. I’m always gentle.”

Poke really, really wants to laugh at this, but he has a feeling that if he starts he’ll never stop. This situation is just too bizarre.

“You won’t be,” he tells Mike.

Once again, there’s silence on the line. “Poke, who the fuck are you sending my way?” Mike’s voice is low. He sounds more curious than angry, but Poke wouldn’t be surprised if that were to change.

“Someone you won’t like, and this is where I’ll need you to trust me, okay?” he says calmly, trying to convey his confidence. “Everything you’ll think of, I have thought of, believe me, but you have to give him a chance.”

“Is he worth the risk, whoever he is?”

“Yes,” Tony replies immediately, and the absolute certainty in his voice seems to appease Mike. “I’ve been working with him for about four months now, and he’s solid. Hell, the guy’s the reason things have been going so well here lately. Just give him a chance. It could change everything, Mike. It really could.”

On the other end of the line, Mike sighs deeply. “Alright,” he says after a while. “Where do I meet him?”

Poke’s shoulders slump as relief washes over him. “I’ll get Ray to arrange something. Should be next week, but I don’t know when exactly yet.”

“Alright. Anything else?”

“You can’t tell anyone, not even your boy. You’ll understand why.” Poke knows what he’s asking of Mike. There are no secrets between him and Nate, but there is no other way.

“He won’t like that,” Mike says, slowly.

“Yeah, and you know I like him, but believe me he’ll be happier not knowing. He’ll probably sleep better, too.”

“Jesus, Poke, who the fuck did you find?”

And Poke does laugh, this time. At this point, he’s not even sure how to answer that question anymore. Except, he does. “The saddest motherfucker you’ll ever meet.”

Mike doesn’t reply, so Tony continues. “You take care of him for me, alright? Trust me on this. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, dog, I think this guy needs us even more than we need him. Ray’ll call you. Thanks, Mike.”

Tony hangs up, and leans his forehead against the wall for a second. He may have just sold the entire resistance to the Reich. But he knows he hasn’t. He might be crazy, but he knows this is right. Now he just has to hope Mike won’t shoot Brad on sight.

**  
**

________________

 

 

 

 

> **FROM SALT LAKE CITY TO NEW YORK**
> 
>  
> 
> _BRAD COLBERT TALKS ABOUT RETURNING TO NEW YORK AND WHY HE’S HAVING THE TIME OF HIS LIFE_
> 
>  
> 
> _December 1960_
> 
>  
> 
> Carefully watching the coming and going in the private club we’re meeting, Brad Colbert, Scharführer at the SS Elite Unit Kampfhund, reflects on how much life has changed since he gotten his new orders. Until a couple weeks ago, Colbert was, as our readers might recall, participating in a prestigious exchange programme with our Japanese Friends. After one year in Salt Lake City, Colbert has recently received new orders to lead the Elite Unit, stationed in New York, his home town, starting Jan 1st, 1961.
> 
>  
> 
> “I couldn’t be happier right now,” the newly promoted officer tells Heimat Magazine as he exclusively invites us to have coffee with him at the officer’s club SIEGMUND on the Upper East Side, where Colbert reportedly lives. Colbert orders black coffee and oatmeal - no fancy coffee creations for the most popular soldier in the country?
> 
>  
> 
> “I’m afraid my taste has been influenced by my years of service,” he says as he smiles. “Luxuries are not very common in the field.”
> 
>  
> 
> As he settles in, he talks about his time in the Japanese Pacific States, where he patrolled the border to the Neutral Zone. “It was a huge honor to represent the Greater Reich there, and I think it has been a mutually beneficial collaboration.”
> 
>  
> 
> Now he’s back in New York, the city he grew up in. “I missed New York. It’s the closest thing I have to a home,” he says. “I consider myself very lucky to be back and stationed here.”
> 
>  
> 
> Having giant billboards displaying your face plastered around the city and hanging out with the High Society of the Reich is hardly the life of an ordinary soldier, but we all know Brad Colbert is on the fast-track to a lofty future.
> 
>  
> 
> “I grew up in an orphanage not too far from here, actually,” Colbert says as he’s looking out through the window. “I started out in very humble conditions, but the Reich saw the potential I had and gave me a chance to prove myself.”
> 
>  
> 
> Looking out over the sprawling city of New York, it’s clear to see that Colbert isn’t exaggerating when he calls this metropolis “the beating heart of the Reich.” Asked about his living situation, Colbert declines to answer, but confirms rumours that he’s not living in the barracks anymore. “I found a quiet place, and I would like to keep it that way, so you’ll understand if I don’t tell you where exactly my apartment is.” Insiders claim that Colbert was recently offered a penthouse suite on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park. America’s favourite son surely has made his way up the hierarchy!
> 
>  
> 
> “From the minute I stepped foot in New York again, it was as if I had never left,” Colbert continues. “It’s just an incredible city to live and work in, full of thrilling opportunities. There’s plenty of challenges waiting for me here, and I cannot wait to bring some of what I learnt in Japan to New York.”
> 
>  
> 
> Asked if he has met his platoon yet, he shakes his head. “Unfortunately, not. But I am looking forward to meeting them, and working with them. I heard great things, and I cannot wait to see what we get up to. I’m sure we’ll have a very productive time ahead of us.”
> 
>  
> 
> Indeed, there’s challenges aplenty waiting for Colbert - he’s leading his own team in the Sondereinheit Kampfhund, the elite section of the SS. Although he cannot comment on any specific orders he’s been given - “State secrets, I’m afraid,” he says with a charming smile - it has been said that Colbert has been tasked with fighting black market activity in the city.
> 
>  
> 
> But after thirteen years in the military, we are sure he’s more than well prepared for this job. Colbert is aware that the nation is watching his every move - “Sometimes I feel like I have a million parents,” he jokes - but doesn’t feel the pressure. “I know what I can do, and I know what my plan is.”
> 
>  
> 
> At twenty-six, other people are looking to settle down and have kids. Colbert, however, has no such plans - “The life I am leading doesn’t allow for that. It is not my time to settle down.” And we suddenly understand how he came to rise so steadily through the ranks, with no end in sight.
> 
>  
> 
> Colbert is utterly determined. It seems like this soldier of the Reich has a clear path, and a distinct idea of where this path will lead. And that, combined with his perfect Aryan features and 6’4 stature, probably explains how this man captured the interest of the entire country.

 

________________

 

####  **1961**

 

The time where having to interact with the Reich sent bouts of anxiety and dread down Nate’s stomach has long passed. Not for a lack of trying from their part - Nate looks up at the oversized government buildings, knowing they are designed to make him feel small and insignificant.

Stories of people who went to get a new permission slip and never came back circulate wildly, but Nate knows they are untrue. If the Reich wants you, they don’t wait for you to come. They will hunt for you, and not wait before they find you.

With a deep sigh, Nate steps forward as his number is called. An old man takes his slip, confirms the number, and leads Nate to one of the dozens of desks.

Nate waits for the officer behind the desk to acknowledge him before sitting down - a lesson learnt the hard way. You have to pay your respects even to the lowliest of officers, otherwise you’ll find yourself back in the queue - or, even worse, refused to be served.

“What are you here for?” the officer asks, bored, as he reaches out for Nate’s documents.

“A new food stamp allocation, sir,” Nate answers.

“Change of employer?” The officer shuffles through the documents, clearly not interested, but also not unkind.

“No, my working hours changed,” Nate answers, and the officer looks at him. The silence stretches out between them, uncomfortably, until Nate realizes his mistake. “Sir.” he adds, hastily.

The officer nods. “What’s your race status?”

It shouldn’t matter, Nate thinks. This is all some pseudo-biological bullshit you designed to make yourself the superior race. “American.”

He tries to ignore the quick look of disgust on the officer’s face. “On both sides?”

“Yes,” Nate says, curtly. The Nazi’s obession with family heritage used to amuse him. Ray compared it to breeding race horses. But this random question decides fate these days.

“No sub-human genes? Indian, for example?” the officer stares at Nate, looking at his face, his eyes, his nose, the shape of his skull, Nate knows.

Nate thinks of Poke and swallows. “No. Both my parent’s lineage is purely Anglo-Saxon.” Nate notices his mistake as soon as he sees the reaction of the officer.

“English, then. Well, they are no fighting force.” He chuckles, and Nate forces his face into a mask. As if you would have had a chance to beat them without the US dropping out of the war, Nate thinks.

He waits for the next question, hoping, against all odds, this to be over soon.

“Health status?”

“Excellent,” Nate says. “You have a copy of my latest bill of health in there.” The officer nods and ignores the blue slip Nate is pointing to.

“No chronic illnesses?”

“No.”

“Mental deficiencies?”

“No.”

The officer nods, satisfied. “Family status?”

“Single, no children,” Nate says, automatically. The thought of bringing children into this world is alien to him by now. He knows he is living on borrowed time.

The officer looks scandalized. “You are 24 years old. You should look into settling down, getting kids, raising the next generation of glorious soldiers for your country!” He is almost yelling at the end, and Nate never felt more … undignified. The fact that he has to listen to some random guy schooling him about his personal choices makes him angry. He shouldn’t have to do any of this, shouldn’t have to prove he’s worthy the meagre food ration he’s begging for here.

Still, his face is polite when he replies. “Absolutely, sir.” The officer seems pacified by this and settles down again.

“I see you also submitted a letter of recommendation from your superior, and a copy of the police registry.”

Nate nods.

The officer looks at the green police registry notification. “No entries.”

Nate smiles, and this time, it’s for real. “Yes.” He thanks a God he doesn’t believe in that they were never caught in any of their activities.

The officer scribbles on some piece of paper, and Nate can’t help but wonder what he looks like to him. Another face in a sea of millions, he supposes. Nothing special about me. Mediocre job, no benefactors in high places, nothing particularly interesting. And even though that’s the way it’s supposed to be –Nate’s mom was right, being forgotten is the best way to get by– it grates on Nate.

Look at me, he thinks. Look at me. I’m the one trying to bring you down. I’m the one who shut down the highway last week. I’m the one who causes you pain. Look at me.

When the officer looks up, he hands Nate a slip. “Here’s your receipt. Take that to reception, and they’ll give you the food stamps. All for the Reich.”

Nate automatically repeats  the last words, and before he can say anything else, a loud “Next!” tells him it’s time to leave.

When Nate steps out to the street, he doesn’t notice the black sleek car making its way past the public entry of the census bureau.

“Look at all those plebes,” the driver says to Brad, passing the queue that stretches for blocks in the hot August sun. “Sucks to be them.”

The utter lack of compassion upsets Brad. He briefly wonders if it was like this before he left for Japan, or if he’s only noticing now. Either way, it seems wrong.

“Let’s not forget you can find yourself easily in the company of what you call ‘plebes’, were I to request a different driver,” Brad says, coldness in his voice and hatred in his heart. It’s more important than ever that he is above all doubts. He needs to play his role better than ever. The stakes are higher, and he cannot fail.

The rest of the drive to the military headquarters is spent in silence.

The fact that Godfather doesn’t let Brad wait tells him a lot about his rank and esteem. Godfather’s attache ushers him past a row of waiting men –who, by the blankness of their faces will remember this indignity. But Brad is past caring. He needs to make himself useful.

“Colbert. Excellent to have you back,” Godfather booms as Brad enters his office. He motions at Brad to sit down across from him and waits till he is settled in.

“How was your stay in the Japanese Zone?” Godfather asks, and Brad is aware that Godfather never asks a simple question. Everything has different meanings with him.

“Very educational,” Brad answers eventually, hoping that will suffice. Godfather chuckles.

“It’s alright, Colbert, you can speak your mind here.”

I highly doubt it, Brad thinks. “They didn’t necessarily live up to my standards, sir,” he says, evenly, with as much arrogance as he thinks he can get away with.

Godfather looks at him for a moment, and Brad is terrified he crossed the line. He cannot afford to lose Godfather’s good graces, now less than ever. He wonders how he can make up for his slip - apologizing will only alienate Godfather further - when his boss suddenly erupts in laughter.

“You’re a cocky motherfucker, Colbert. I like that.” He pauses for a moment, still chuckling. “But let me be clear. We did you a goddamn favour for sending you on that appointment. You don’t get to choose, and we sure as fuck don’t ask for your opinion.” His watery grey eyes stare at Brad.

Brad nods. “Understood, sir.”

With that, Godfather tosses some documents at Brad. “Here’s your access slips to the headquarters, the key to your office, and some briefing documents.”

Brad takes the folder and nods. “What about the assignment, sir? I noticed my platoon is not marked ‘combat ready’ yet.”

“You’ll have to be patient. Train with your men, show me some results, and I’ll find something for you.”

Brad nods. No favours here. He’ll need a good assignment to secure his place in the social hierarchy, but it looks like Godfather lets him start out from the bottom. Very well. It’s not the first time Brad’s starting from nothing.

“One last thing, Colbert.”

Brad looks from the documents at Godfather.

“You’re not just any soldier, we know that, you know that. The council decided to put you on some posters around town. The people love you, might as well profit from it.” He rings a bell, and the attache rushes in.

Brad stands up, not needing to be told his time with the commander is over. “Thank you, sir.”

Godfather doesn’t acknowledge Brad, just grunts.

Once they left the office, the attache hands another sheet to Brad. “Here’s your updated agenda for today, sir. The photoshoots are scheduled at five, you’re asked to shower and shave before that.”

I’m still a dancing monkey, Brad realizes. He nods and walks away, but to his surprise, the attache keeps following him.

“Anything else?” Brad asks, hoping the answer is no. He needs to find his office, settle in, and make contact with Poke’s friend. He doesn’t know how, but that never stopped him before.

The attache withers under Brad’s glare. “Your tailor called.” Brad doesn’t have a tailor.

“What did he say?” Brad says, careful not to let anything show besides a faint sense of annoyance.

The attache is shuffling his feet, and Brad realizes they are stuck in the middle of a hallway in the headquarters of the fucking military service.

“I know you are not busy by any meaningful definition of the word, but some of us actually have a full schedule, so I would really appreciate if you could get your brain and mouth in sync and let me know what he said.”

The attache nods. “Well, he said a lot. I couldn’t quite catch everything.” He looks at his feet. “But I think what he said was that he had an opening tonight, if you are available, you should give him a call.” With that, he hands Brad a piece of paper. Brad doesn’t comment on the fact that the hand is shaking.

He looks at the paper - a number scribbled on it. He simply nods and walks on, leaving the attache behind. This is it, Brad is sure of it.

They somehow managed to get in touch with him before he was even in the headquarters. He knows how good Anthony is, so he figured the people he works with would live up to the same standard. But this? This bodes well.

 

This doesn’t bode well, Nate thinks as he looks at the police vans in front of the townhouse on the Upper East Side. He cycles past, careful not to look too closely. At the next intersection, he turns left, heading into a small alley.

He counts the houses, careful not to make any noise. The alley is quiet, most people being at work or avoiding public spaces. When he gets to a red townhouse in the middle of the block, he gets off his bike, locking it to the fence surrounding the small back garden.

He waits for a minute on the porch. When he feels sufficiently confident that he is the only one around, he knocks at the door.

Please let them be there, Nate thinks. Please let this be a weird coincidence. Please let them be there.

The door opens, and a feeling of relief flushes through Nate. He steps in, careful to close the door behind him.

“Nate, my friend. How are you doing? All well?” Nate can’t answer, because he’s embraced in a tight hug. He pats his friend on the back and takes a deep breath once he is released.

“God damn it, Rudy, do you do anything else besides working out?” Nate says, poking at Rudy’s biceps. Hard like steel. Unbelievable.

“You have to get a work-life-balance, my friend. A healthy body is a sign for a healthy mind.” Rudy says, good-heartedly. He motions at Nate to follow him to the kitchen.

When Nate enters, he waves at Lilley. “So you all made it.” They would have heard if something went wrong, but still. Seeing his friends, being able to reassure himself that they are well, always helps with the worry.

“No biggie,” Lilley says, the words betraying the fierceness in his eyes. Nate wonders how old Lilley is - they never ask, it’s not like they have an age restriction, but he’d guess around twenty, probably younger. He should be in school, Nate thinks. He should worry about inviting girls to the prom, not about smuggling kids out of this place. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts.

“What’s going on outside?” He asks instead.

Lilley shrugs nonchalantly. “No idea. They pulled up a couple of hours ago. Looks like they’re looking for someone.”

“They should be gone soon. All should be good for tonight,” Rudy says, piping in from the kitchen counter. He hands a cup to Nate, and the smell of glorious real coffee makes Nate’s mouth water.

Rudy smiles. “I know you’re not using your ration for yourself, but even so, Poke gave me a little something for you.”

Nate starts to protest –this is not why he’s here at all– but Rudy hands him a parcel, tightly wrapped. There’s a fake address on it, and when Nate shakes it, he doesn’t hear a sound. Tightly packed, then. Nate turns away to hide his smile.

“So. About tonight,” he says, and sees how Lilley and Rudy snap to. He didn’t ask to be their leader, didn’t want to, but somehow, he ended up in this position. Just one more burden to carry.

“We are currently looking at five people to get out, not including three kids.” Nate looks at them, and Rudy nods. “Let’s go through the plan.”

“I’ll pick them up at the warehouse at 1900,” Lilley says, evenly. “If someone asks, I’m there to pick up more timber for the renovation up on 6th Ave.” Nate nods.

“We’ll drive them to Cincinnati overnight. Pap organized a safe house, and will bring them over the border the next day,” Rudy adds. “We have papers for them, it should all be good, my man.” He looks at Nate.

“Okay, sounds great. Let me know when you’re in Cincinnati.”

Nate knows they would anyway, they are good at checking in, mostly because silence means something went wrong. Eight more people in safety at this time tomorrow, Nate thinks. Eight down, millions more to go.

It isn’t enough, but it’s all he can do. It just feels so … insignificant. He’ll save eight lives, but how many more will die? They should do more. They need to do more.

“Anything else, Nate?” Rudy asks, carefully.

“Oh. Yes.” Nate berates himself for getting lost in his thoughts. No use, not now. “Here’s a bunch of letters.” He pulls them out of his bag, about fifty of them, carefully bound together with a string. “Poke will know most of them.”

Rudy nods and takes them carefully, as if he knew how much those letters mean. Lifelines between families, friends and lovers. The last time some of them will hear from each other.

“Say hi to Pap, will you?” Nate says, putting his backpack back on. He can’t stick around for much longer. He doesn’t have a reason to be here, and he needs to be gone before the police packs up shop in the street.

“Of course,” Rudy says, smiling. Nate waves goodbye to Lilley and walks to the backdoor.

“Take care, Nate.” Rudy hugs Nate again.

“You too.” They don’t linger. Nate steps out, the door closes behind him, and he is once again alone in the alley.

 **  
** -

Just leave me alone, Brad thinks to the photographer pointing a camera too close to his face.

“How about a smile?” another guy –Brad thinks he’s the art director, whatever that means–  asks. Brad bares his teeth, and sees the guy pause awkwardly.

“Okay, perhaps no smile,” the art guy says, and the camera clicks away. Brad wonders how much longer this will take. He needs to be out of here by six to make the appointment with his tailor.

The air is too hot, the glass windows of the studio trapping the summer sun and creating a pitiless sauna.

“Once more, Scharführer,” the photographer says, pulling Brad back into the present.

“Oberscharführer,” he says, emotionless, and watches the face of the photographer fall.

“Of course, I’m sorry for that, sir.” The incongruity of civilians calling him ‘sir’ never ceases to amaze Brad. Instead of answering, he just nods, looking at the watch on the wall. Quarter to six.

“I’m sorry gents, but that will have to suffice.” He starts to walk away from the white backdrop, pushing his way past the photographer, towards the exit.

“But we are not done here!” the art director protests.

Brad turns around. “I have been here for two hours now. If we are not done now, I don’t think we ever will. I have other affairs to tend to. Good night.” He nods, knowing the politeness will add insult to the injury, but he can’t get himself to care. He needs to hone his reputation as a ruthless asshole to protect himself. The less people want to do with him, the better.

He walks out into the hot summer evening. The air outside feels almost chilly compared to the studio. He takes a deep breath and mentally prepares himself for the next item on his agenda.

 **  
** -

The apartment is empty when Nate comes home, and he shouldn’t be surprised. Officially, he’s living alone, after all. If you look closely, however, there are traces of a second roommate - the second mattress in his bedroom, the two cups in the sink. Nate crosses the small living room and puts Poke’s parcel in the fridge. He’ll wait with unpacking until Mike is back.

He picks up the phone, almost automatically by now.

“Hey hey hey. If it isn’t my favourite rabble rouser.” Ray’s easiness relaxes Nate. Ray would know.

“I’m not sure that word applies to anybody over the age of ten, Ray,” Nate says.

“You know, with that face of yours, you could fool me.”

“That’s a low blow even for you, Ray,” Nate says before adding “You know where Mike is?”

Ray just hums. “Yeah, he had to do a thing.”

“A thing,” Nate repeats, wondering why Mike hasn’t told him about it. It’s not like they share everything, but they don’t keep secrets from each other.

“Yeah. He’s checking out a potential.” Nate pushes the bad feeling down. They do that sometimes. It’s better to go alone on these occasions –if it is a trap, only one of them will disappear.

“Okay then,” Nate says. Nothing much to say besides.

“Oh. Hey. You’ll love this,” Ray says, voice getting excited. “So one of my little birdies at the ministry of propaganda told me they are planning an entire new set of posters to beautify our beloved city with.”

“Oh no,” Nate says, dreading what monstrosities they’ll come up with. It’s not just the message he deeply disagrees with –the aesthetic of most of the posters is just bad.

“Oh Yes!” Ray replies with obvious glee. “Guess who’ll they’ll put front right and center?” He cackles, and Nate knows the answer.

“Oh no,” he repeats, tonelessly.

“Brad fucking Colbert,” Ray crows, and Nate shakes his head.

“You know that means I’ll have to see his face every fucking day now?” Nate says, pleading, as if Ray could make a difference.

“Yes. All the time. They really want to make him the public face of the Reich, because he’s just so beautiful,” Ray sighs. “So beautiful.”

“He’s still a murderer,” Nate says. “Doesn’t matter how beautiful his face is.”

 

________________

 

The pay phone starts ringing when Nate passes by. He slows his pace but keeps walking. The next payphone down the street starts ringing. Nate’s lips curl into a smile. He has long given up on trying to figure out how Ray knows where he is at any given time.

 

Nate bends down and pretends to fix his shoelaces. No one stops. The phone keeps ringing.

 

He takes a glance in the shop window, pretends to be interested in their meagre goods. Eighteen years of occupation show in the ever increasing list of goods that aren't available in the shops anymore - if you want tights, bananas, or even red meat, your best bet is the black market.

 

The phone keeps ringing. With a final glance over his shoulder, Nate assures himself that he isn’t being watched.  As sure as I can be, he thinks, and picks up the phone.

 

"You're playing harder to get than a nun in a room full of sinners!"

 

Nate’s smile widens. "Well, I had to make sure it was just the two of us." A passerby shoots him a questioning look. So be it, Nate thinks - if that guy thinks I'm scheduling a tryst via public pay phone, we're safe. A chuckle escapes him when he realizes that he and Ray are, indeed, arranging an illicit meeting.

 

"Homes, sorry to break your heart, but you're really not my type." Ray sounds apologetic. "Even though my mom would kill me if she knew I'm giving a catch like you a pass. I mean you're fine and all, but I don't shit where I eat."

 

Nate doesn’t know what to say, a feeling he's well acquainted with as it occurs whenever he’s talking to Ray. Ray saves him the trouble by continuing without prompting.

 

"Enough sweet talking, let's get down to business! On today’s agenda: shadowy deals!" He sounds excited, and Nate can’t help but wonder if Ray’s greatest skill is the ability to make it seem like he never takes anything seriously.

 

"So, guess who's finally paying this shithole we call home a visit?" Ray’s tone is gleeful; Nate can picture him bouncing up and down in his seat.

 

He thinks about it. It doesn’t take much to get Ray excited, but Nate hasn't heard him this excited since the scandal that resulted in the very public dismissal of three officers.

 

("Motherfuckers can't even chose the right brothel. I mean, how retarded do you have to be to pick a public whorehouse? Fucking morons. Enough money to spare to afford a nice pair of young, perky tits in a discreet establishment, and they go for saggy Suzie Rottencrotch right around the corner. I tell you. Grade A, motherfucking idiots.")

 

"I have a feeling you’re about to tell me." Nate glances around, affecting a casual pose, trying to sound like he’s flirting. Still no one watching. Or Nate just doesn’t see them.

 

"Motherfucking Rikugun-Chūjō Kaizen."

 

Nate's thoughts start racing. Kaizen. That's big. He's the commander of the 3rd imperial division. And word on the street is that the "cordial relationship" has cooled off significantly recently. This could be huge.

 

"I knew you'd be impressed," Ray sounds positively smug, reveling in Nate’s silence, but something about this doesn’t sit right with Nate. Visits like that are never publicly announced. If anything, the people hear about it after the visitor is safely back home. It’s endlessly frustrating. The resistance is always a step behind because this is the kind of valuable information they don’t normally have access to.

 

"Where did you get this from?" Nate asks.

 

Ray seems to understand what he means, tone going from playful to reassuring. "Relax, homes, we got our sources. Okay, not sources plural, just one, but it’s a good one. Either way. That's not all. We got access to the travel itinerary, too."

 

Nate exhales. This is an opportunity served on a silver platter, almost too good to be true. Things are never this easy.

 

"Does Mike know about this?"

 

"Yeah, buddy, who do you think organized this?" Ray laughs.

 

Nate lets himself relax. If Mike is behind this, he can trust it.

 

"Okay, so the documents will be deposited by 6:15 at the old hat factory,” Ray continues. “You know where that is?"

 

Nate rolls his eyes. "One of us is spending his days biking through this city, and it isn’t you."

 

"Yeah, because avoiding getting hit by cars and getting caught in downpours isn’t my idea of fun, homes. And they always say you're the brains of this organization."

 

Nate snorts.

 

Ray continues, his voice dropping dramatically. "Your mission, should you accept it, is to pick up the documents and bring them to Mike for further validation."

 

"Validation?" Nate repeats, surprised. That's not how it usually goes. Their network of informants is small enough for Nate and Mike to know who to trust and how much.

 

"Yeah, homes, but don’t worry your pretty head about it. Mike'll do that. Just get the papers to him."

 

"Alright. 6:15?" Nate asks.

 

"Indeed-y-o, homes." Ray pauses for a second. When he continues he sounds hesitant. "Don't worry if you're late. The guy who’s dropping them isn't too keen on being seen."

 

"Okay, got it." Nate is hesitant to hang up. Talking to Ray is sometimes like listening to verbal diarrhea, but it is also strangely comforting.

 

"Oh, one last thing,” Ray adds casually. “I did a bit of screwing around and you can now reach me by dialing 9999 from any phone. Remember, Nate,” he singsongs gleefully, “dial nine nine nine nine to get your pal Ray on the line!" With that, he hangs up.

 

Nate stands there, phone in his hand, and knows he'll have the jingle stuck in his head for the rest of the day.

 

The drop point looks like any other drop point: a dilapidated building in a back alley. Remote enough for discretion, not quite enough to arouse suspicion. There are places just like this all over the city. Nate’s fists clench when he thinks about the number of people who used to live there and why they don’t anymore.

 

He gets off his bike, tucks it away in a dark corner and himself with it, and waits. He’s not late. Turns out he’s even early, his previous delivery having taken a lot less time than he was anticipating.

 

It isn’t dark yet, though the heavy clouds have kept the city under veil for days now. Nate’s watch indicates it’s 6:03pm.

 

There is no rule about avoiding contact between resistance members in public, but Nate knows some of them would rather stay anonymous, be it for their own protection or their family’s. He can’t blame them. Severing his relations with his parents is still the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and while it’s not a decision he regrets, he wouldn’t wish nor force it on anybody. So when he finally hears footsteps, Nate follows Ray’s instruction. He stays right where he is and doesn’t make a sound.

 

When the footsteps stop and don’t pick up again, Nate frowns. He counts his breaths, lets a minute pass, and is about to lean around the wall to take a look when the footsteps resume. But they’re not going away, towards the drop point. Unhurried, and deliberate, the footsteps are coming closer to where he is. Nate’s heart suddenly thumps hard in his chest, and he thinks, very clearly:

 

Fuck.

 

It’s January 29th, 1961, and Nate’s world is about to turn upside down for the second time.

 

He has a plan. It’s precarious at best, but it’s worked in the past. Carefully, Nate slips the small knife he keeps against his hip out of its sheath and punctures the front tire of his bike. There, now he has a reason to be stopped here. With all the broken glass on the ground, a flat tire is plausible enough that Nate allows himself some optimism that he can talk his way out of this. It dies, swift as a snuffed out candle, when the figure accompanying the footsteps rounds the corner to stand in front of him and Nate realizes he knows this face.

 

He has known it since he was ten and came back from his first camping trip, terrified and hopeful. He knew it at twelve when Arthur died and Dwight used it as his sole justification. He knew it when he refused to enter the Jungvolk Games that promised to make you as famous as its bearer if you won.

 

He knew it at thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen, watched it change as the boy wearing it grew older and kept rising steadily to the top. The Child of the Reich became the Rising Star, became the Young Champion, the Pride of the Reich, the Elite Soldier, the Example of every achievement of the National Socialist ideology, acclaimed, congratulated, his picture plastered all over the Reich for the Volk to admire and worship.

 

Through every stage of Nate’s life, this face has been there, taunting him, mocking him, sparking the sort of feral rage Nate never knew he had in him. Showing him what he could be, what he should be. Sharp blue eyes, cropped blond hair, fair skin, and a chin held high; broad shoulders, set and straight, covered by a crisp uniform. Nate has memorised these features so long ago, he would know them anywhere.

Even in the last place they should be.

 

Here is what Nate knows now: Scharführer Colbert looks even colder and prouder in the flesh than he ever did on paper, and Nate is briefly, viscerally terrified of him.

 

In the half second they stand silently facing each other, Nate’s thoughts swirl inside his head in a chaotic mess: the guy Ray sent has been captured, tortured and is probably dead. He gave up the time and location of the drop. He gave up the documents. He sold them all out. The Reich knows, and they’re all fucked, and Nate is going to die. Brad Colbert, elite SS, the face Nate has pictured putting a bullet through so many times, is going to shoot him for treason in a back alley in New York City with no witnesses.

 

Nate has a flash of his blood spattering Colbert’s immaculate boots and feels a morbid rush of satisfaction.

 

The vision passes abruptly as the adrenaline kicks in, the reality of the man in front of him hitting Nate like a bullet in the chest. Nate has no idea what expression on his face is, but he knows it doesn’t matter. Colbert takes one look at him and, Nate reads it in his eyes as clearly as if he were speaking aloud, he knows exactly why Nate is here. A slow grin spreads on Colbert’s face, and Nate’s blood goes cold.

 

“So what’s your name?” Colbert asks, “Mike didn’t say.”

 

At the name, Nate’s inside turns from ice to fire. His body reacts before his head has time to catch up and by the time his eyes blink open, Colbert’s back is against the wall, Nate’s arm across his chest, Nate’s knife at his throat, years of pent-up hatred finally getting the opportunity to take over. Colbert, to his credit, only looks surprised for a second before his eyes narrow and he seems to suddenly _see_ Nate, take the full measure of him. Nate takes a grim pleasure in the SS officer’s remaining caution after sizing him up. Scharführer Colbert, it turns out, isn’t as cocky as he would like you to believe. Nate presses the knife closer to his throat. It bites at the skin when Colbert swallows.

 

“You might not be fully aware who you’re dealing with, here,” Colbert says, voice and breathing calm and steady.

 

“I know exactly who you are,” Nate snarls, the blood rushing to his head so loud he barely hears himself, but what he hears scares him. He sounds half mad, terror and fury wrestled into something clipped and cold. Mike wouldn’t like it. Jesus, _Mike_ . “Scharführer Colbert, child of the Reich. I know all about you. We’re all so _proud_ of you,” he snarls.

 

Colbert’s face hardens at once, a nasty curl to his lips and his eyes flash in anger for the first time since he appeared. It’s gone as fast as it came, his expression settling into something calm and distant as he seems to come to some sort of decision. Nate braces himself, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet and pressing more heavily on Colbert’s chest. He tightens his grip on the knife.

 

Slowly, Colbert raises both his hands and relaxes, making a show of it. His shoulders lose their rigidity, his posture loosens, his features morph into polite interest. Nate’s blade against his Adam’s apple keeps him from slouching, but Nate has the sudden and irrational conviction that Colbert would do just that if it wouldn’t cut his throat open.

 

“I’m guessing,” Colbert says, “that you’re here for something.” He manages to sound smug, even with a knife at his throat. Nate presses the blade closer.

 

Colbert wiggles the fingers of his left hand to catch Nate’s attention, telegraphing his move before he reaches inside his coat pocket and takes out a sealed envelope. He holds it out to Nate pointedly. Nate doesn’t move.

 

“I promise I did not open it,” Colbert says, shaking the envelope enticingly.

 

The fucker has the audacity to mock him. Nate’s hand spasms around the knife. For half a second, he checks out. He has a very distinct vision of himself stabbing Colbert in the throat repeatedly, blood gushing out of the wound, staining Nate’s jacket beyond repair while Colbert gurgles and chokes, unable to get any air in his lungs. It would be so easy.

 

Nate comes back to himself as a shudder of revulsion wracks his body. He blinks, distracted by the violence of his own mind. It’s just a fraction of a second. But it’s enough.

 

The next thing Nate feels is his cheek crashing against the wall just as the sound of metal clanking against pavement and the feeling of being grabbed and spun around register. The force of the impact almost knocks him out. When he shakes off the dizziness, Colbert has both his arms twisted behind his back and a hand on the back of his head, keeping his face pushed up against the wall, the rough bricks scraping his cheekbone. Nate’s eyes prickle, his heart rate spikes. Through the haze, he thinks he hears Colbert mutter a curse.

 

“Listen,” Colbert’s voice is at his ear, low and urgent, almost alien. Nate struggles and manages to lean away from the wall just enough for Colbert to shove him back forcefully.

Nate tastes blood in his mouth.

 

“Listen,” Colbert repeats. He’s so close Nate feels his breath on the back of his neck. He grits his teeth. “Mike’s fine.”

 

If the mention of his friend is meant to pacify him, it doesn’t work. Nate bucks as hard as he can, throws his head back. His skull slips from under Colbert’s hand and cracks against something solid. He hears a grunt, but Colbert’s grip is back immediately. Nate’s face meets the wall a third time. “Jesus fucking Christ, _Nate_.”

 

Nate freezes, all the air in his lungs rushing out of him. Colbert knows his name. That means  Colbert knows everything. How the fuck did this happen? _When_? Who’s the traitor that went to Colbert, of all people? Nate’s breath speeds up, as he tries to push down the panic rising in his throat. They are done for. If Colbert knows, there is no way the rest of the Partei doesn’t.

 

Nate’s mind races ahead as he realizes what that means: arrests, of course. Torture. Show trials, probably. The government never misses an occasion to show off arrested traitors. For a second, Nate is grateful his family is as safe as they can be. Then his thoughts screech to a halt. He’ll die. Nate and Mike and Ray and every single one of his friends will die. There’s no way Colbert will let them live.

 

Behind him, Colbert lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Never assault an officer of the Reich again,” he hisses, punctuating each of his words by yanking on Nate’s twisted arms. The sudden pain in his shoulders makes Nate want to scream.

 

There’s a pause. Colbert takes a deep breath, but doesn’t continue. Before Nate has time to figure out what to do, Colbert hits him hard in the kidney and drops him. Nate falls to his knees, arms limp, as pain explodes in his side and shoots up into his guts like electricity. His face scrapes the wall on the way down but he barely feels it.

 

He doesn’t lose consciousness but it’s a close thing. His surroundings are blurry for moment, and he concentrates on breathing. Once his vision sharpens back to normal, Nate feels confident enough to try standing. The pain in his side will follow him for days, but if he’s careful it shouldn’t impede his movements too much. As soon as he’s on his feet again, he looks around, searching the alley for any sign of Colbert. There’s none.

 

Nate stands there, feeling unbalanced - he’d have expected to be arrested by now, thrown in the back of an unmarked van. But Colbert’s gone. Nate wastes no time looking for him. He needs to get out of there and find Mike.

 

Nate has no memory of the walk to his place. He knows he straps the bike to his backpack and has just enough presence of mind to not be tailed, but he doesn’t remember how long he takes to get there, which streets he takes, if he passes by anyone he knows.

 

His mind is reeling. Everything feels wrong. From this drop to Mike, to fucking _Colbert_. Nate shivers at the thought, resisting the urge scratch at his arms and wrists and neck where he can still feel the touch of the SS. The bruise forming in his side hurts every time his feet hit the floor, a constant reminder. What Nate can’t quite parse is: a reminder of what, exactly?

 

There’s a few ugly thoughts he’s trying very hard not to give voice to, but they keep circling him, refusing to let him ignore them.

 

Shoved in his pocket is the envelope he was there to pick up. The one Colbert offered him. It was perched delicately on the saddle of his bike when Nate got to his feet; unopened, just as promised. Leaving it wasn’t an option, but it burns a hole in Nate’s pocket. He feels like the guard who opened the gate to the Trojan Horse.

 

None of this makes sense. Colbert knew to be there at the right time, he knew Mike’s name, knew it would get a reaction from Nate. Does he know that Mike is only officially dead? Does he have Mike, stashed away in some secret prison somewhere?

 

Nate can’t entertain the possibility of Mike getting caught, much less of him talking if he were. Nate saw Mike only yesterday, less than 24 hours ago. Colbert had to be bluffing. Mike organised his death exactly because he was starting to be too well-known, Colbert being familiar with the name isn’t beyond the realm of possibility. He probably just tried it to see if he would get a reaction out of Nate.

 

Still. Something about Colbert’s attitude upsets him. Nate attacked him, not the other way round. Colbert only resorted to violence when he had no other choice, and that just doesn’t make any fucking sense. Colbert hunts people like Nate, kills them. Why would he not kill Nate when he had more than enough reason to? Nate turns the encounter over in his mind for the hundredth time, his fists clenching and unclenching in uncontrolled spasms.

 

Colbert didn’t kill him. He didn’t arrest him. Hell, he didn’t even do any real, lasting damage. He had Nate declare himself a member of the resistance and attack him, and left him there. With the message that would incriminate Nate beyond saving. This is what Nate is stuck on. He wishes he weren’t, but something there is making his heart beat too fast and cold sweat run down his back. Nothing about this makes any sense.

 

By the time he reaches their place, he’s half frantic, dread heavy in his guts. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find. He’s not sure what he _wants_ to find. If Mike’s not there, he’ll have most of his answers. If he _is_ there... well. This is what Nate is trying not to think about.

 

Mike sitting on the couch, as healthy and intact as the last time Nate saw him.

 

Nate inhales, slow and deep.

 

“Mike.”

 

“Nate, you look like hell, what the fuck happened?” Mike takes a step towards him, worry apparent in his face.

 

Here’s what Nate will never, ever let anything or anyone convince him of: Mike Wynn does not care about him.

 

“Scharführer Colbert was at the drop point,” Nate says, trying to keep his voice even and almost succeeding.

 

Mike’s features shift into an expression that Nate has never seen on him before. Nate feels very cold all of a sudden. He goes into the kitchen and washes the blood off his face. The cold water feels good on his swollen face, but does nothing to calm the thoughts in his head.

 

“He let me go, Mike,” he says when he returns to the living room, where Mike is wordlessly handing him two pain pills. Nate swallows them dry.

 

Here’s what Nate is desperate not to be right about: Mike caring about him and Scharführer letting him go being related.

 

Mike sighs, runs a hand over his face. With stubble on his jaw and his hair too long, he looks so much older than Nate. More tired than Nate has ever seen him.

 

“So you’ve met Brad,” is all he says, not even bothering to hide the finality of it.

 

Every single muscle in Nate’s body finds a way to tense up a little more. He’s so wired up it feels like his lungs are vibrating.

 

Here’s one thought that Nate was trying very hard not to give voice to: Mike Wynn, his best friend, the one person he trusts in this life, one of the major members of the entire resistance movement, is working with Scharführer Colbert.

 

“Brad,” Nate repeats. He doesn’t choke on the name like he thought he would. It comes out flat and lifeless. “Mike, tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

 

“It’s not.” Mike is trying to calm Nate down, Nate knows this, but it doesn’t work. If anything, it makes him even angrier.

 

“Stop fucking with me.”

 

 _“It’s not_!”

 

The shout shocks Nate out of his haze, forces him to meet Mike’s eyes. And they are Mike’s eyes. And there’s anger there, but no deception. Nate would see it if there was. He would. He tells himself he would.

 

“But if you’d sooner believe I’m a Nazi spy than think of the alternative, at least he’s doing his job better than I am.”

 

“What?”

 

Nate has no idea what Mike is talking about. Mike studies him for a beat, before heaving a pained sigh.

 

“He’s been with us for about a year now,” he says, moving away from the desk to sit on the arm of the ratty couch under the window, and lets the silence give weight to his words.

 

Here’s one thought that would never, in a million years, occur to Nate Fick: Scharführer Colbert, champion of the Hitler Youth, elite SS officer, figurehead of the Nazi regime in the Great Reich, glorified assassin, is working with Mike Wynn to bring the regime down.

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

“Since he went to Japan for that exchange.”

 

“ _You can’t be serious_.”

 

“I am. And trust me, it wasn’t always that easy for me to admit either.”

 

Nate shakes his head, eyes wide, pacing the small open space between him and Mike. He cannot accept this. This is insane.

 

“You can’t trust him, Mike. Not him. Anybody but him,” he pleads, trying to make Mike understand. Colbert. The orphan honed by the Reich to perfection. Nothing in this man wasn’t crafted by the Partei, they can’t let him anywhere near them, any of them, every part of him is a threat.

 

Mike doesn’t reply as Nate shoots him a pleading look, desperate for Mike to tell him something that will make sense of this.

 

“Ray knows,” he says suddenly, stopping in his tracks, the realisation dawning on him as he replays their earlier conversation. “He tried to warn me, told me not to be early.”

 

Mike nods, but doesn’t say anything.

 

“Who else?” Nate asks, trying to figure out how deep this goes. Colbert. _Brad_.

 

“Poke.”

 

“Jesus,” Nate whispers weakly. “So he knows about our entire network in the Neutral Zone? How did this happen?”

 

“I don’t know, I never asked for the particulars. All I know is that Poke was the first to meet him, and he was also the one who told me to expect him when he came back to New York.”

 

Mike sounds oddly relieved to share this with Nate, and for the first time since since he looked up to find Colbert in front of him, Nate’s certainty wavers.

 

Gaining Mike’s trust isn’t easy, but it’s possible if you work at it long enough and keep your story straight and airtight. Ray trusts people because he likes the shape of their ears, or they told him a joke one time and he laughed until he nearly pissed himself. (The fact that Ray has never once been wrong in who he chooses to associate with isn’t relevant.)

 

But Poke. Nobody fools Poke. Tony Espera does not see good in people the way Mike still does. Tony will see you alright, he’ll see the ugly things you’re running from and he’ll throw them in your face as a test, and he’ll only trust you if you don’t let your ugliness bleed on others. If anything, Tony doesn’t trust enough people. If he was the one who vetted Colbert, there has to be something there, something in Colbert that redeemed him, something that made Poke absolutely certain he was on their side.

 

“Poke sent him to you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He, what? Met Colbert somewhere, they got talking, only to find out that Colbert’s actually a good guy and we should just let him in on the biggest anti-Partei organised movement in the country even though his job is to dismantle said movements and execute its members?”

 

“From what Poke told me, yeah, pretty much,” Mike says, gentle but firm. He has made his peace with this, Nate can see it. Whatever Mike’s first thoughts on the subject, this is something that he has accepted and supports.

 

Nate shakes his head again, at a loss. Why should this even affect him so much? He looks up at Mike, and whatever it is he’s feeling must make more sense to Mike than it does to him, because Mike smiles, not quite bitter, not quite sad.

 

“Yeah, it kind of fucks with your head when you find out that the one thing you spent your entire formative years learning to hate, the very symbol of everything you’ve been fighting against, doesn’t exist.” Mike sighs. “It’s always easier to have a clear target.”

 

Nate drops on the couch next to Mike. His entire body hurts, the adrenaline finally wearing off. He feels like he could sleep for ten days.

 

“So we’re back to fighting ghosts,” he says.

 

Mike squeezes his shoulder. “At least we’ve got one with us.”

 

 


	2. Act II

####  **1961**

 

**JANUARY**

  
Nate doesn’t get much sleep that night. Between the encounter with Colbert and his fist, and the ensuing conversation with Mike playing on a continuous loop in his head, he tosses and turns and stares at the ceiling, unable to quiet his mind nor find a tolerably painful position to fall asleep in. Instead, he thinks back on the years he’s spent hating Colbert, and wonders how he will be able to resist the urge to punch him in the face the next time he sees him.  
  
When the darkness outside the window begins to lighten, Nate is exhausted but accepts that there is no sleep to be had and gets up to make breakfast. Opening his fridge shows him that he’s running out of everything, and the next food stamp day is still a week away. Poke has asked more than once if he should send some food through, make up for Mike living partly off Nate's stamps, but Nate always refuses. Smuggling is a big enough danger as is. There is no use getting anybody arrested over a barrel of cheese. He'll just have to go down to one meal a day. He's been there before. He washes, dresses, and drinks half a can of V8 before leaving. It’ll have to do.  
  
Not that he could eat much, anyways. There is a persistent acid feeling in Nate's stomach that has nothing to with the fact that he hasn't eaten a proper meal in far too long. Even a night of pondering hasn't made Nate warm up to their new addition.  
  
The question he keeps coming back to, even as he steps into the office of the courier service, is why. Why would Brad Colbert, first soldier of the Reich, work against it? It just doesn't make any sense at all. Nate trusts Mike absolutely. If his friend says that Colbert can be trusted, Nate's not going to question it. But still. Being kept in the dark about this, when Poke and even Ray knew what was going on, rubs Nate the wrong way. And that is on top of the thought that he now has to work with Colbert.  
  
The gigantic clock on the wall tells him he made it just in time. Good. Running late means getting your food stamps revoked. If you miss a day off work, you don’t have to come back. Nate grits his teeth as he passes the poster outlining the various punishments for work-related infringements.  
  
"All for the Reich," he says automatically, raising his right arm in perfect fashion that betrays long practice, saluting the flag and the picture of the Führer at the wall next to his boss. Mr Sixta returns the salutation, his arm rising crisply. Nate just nods at him and continues walking to the small room in the back.  
  
He checks his pigeonhole - three easy runs.  He tries to ignore the sharp pain that shoots up up his legs and back with every step he takes. It is an unwelcome reminder of the meeting with Colbert yesterday.  
  
Today will be a fun day, Nate thinks, trying not to think about how his back will feel after ten hours on his bike.  
  
His thoughts get interrupted by his boss. "Nathaniel, I need to see you in my office." He doesn't wait for Nate's reaction before leaving. Nate sighs and follows him.  
  
"Please close the door, Nathaniel," Mr Sixta says. Nate does as asked, wondering what this is about. It can't be good.  
  
His boss sits down behind the desk without offering Nate a seat. So he stands, waiting. His boss puts his fingertips together and says "Nathaniel, what I am about to say is very important, so I need you to pay attention."  
  
Nate just nods, waiting for him to continue.  
  
"We have recently gained a very important customer. If this goes well, and he is satisfied with our services, I will have an influential backer. If not -" Mr Sixta stops. "That can't happen."  
  
Right, Nate thinks. Unhappy customers are bad, but unhappy customers with influence and contacts might literally kill you.  
  
"So you understand that I want you to pay utmost attention to this customer. You are his personal messenger. His messages take priority over anything else. If he calls, no matter what time, you will be at his residence or office within thirty minutes. Understood?"  
  
"What about my days off?" Nate asks.  
  
"Days off?" Mr Sixta shouts. "Nathaniel, let me repeat. He calls, you are there within thirty minutes. No matter what time or day. If you don't like it, or if you are late, you're free to look for another job."  
  
"Of course, Mr Sixta," Nate hears himself say, even though he hates himself for it. If Mr Sixta chooses to fire him, Nate will be in deep trouble. Unemployed people have no right to food stamps or rent subvention as they contribute nothing to the Reich. Nate takes a deep breath and tells himself to keep his feelings off his face. He is working on changing this. He is. He just has to be patient.  
  
His boss seems to be satisfied, as he tosses a folder at Nate. "Here. Make yourself familiar with the home and work address. And as I said, Nate. There will be no fuckups."

  
Nate catches the folder and makes a surprised noise when he reads the name. Colbert. Of course. Something must have shown on his face as his boss continues.  
  
"That's right, my boy. Hauptscharführer Colbert wants us to deliver his messages. His assistant called this morning.”  He manages to sound both terrified and proud. "If we manage to do this right, I will have a very powerful connection, boy."  
  
Of course, Nate thinks disgusted. Connections. That's what this is all about. It only counts who you know and who owes you a favour. The higher up on the food chain, the better. It really doesn't matter how good you are.  
  
He glances at the addresses - he knows where the headquarters are, though he's never been there himself. You don't go there unless you have business to conduct. The home address of Brad Colbert, however, makes his eyebrows rise. Fifth avenue. Only the best for the pride of the Reich.  
  
"Would that be all, Mr Sixta?" Nate asks. He wants to get out of this office as soon as possible. Perhaps the pain in his back will distract him from the twirling thoughts in his head.  
  
"Yes, Nathaniel. Don't forget: no fuckups."

I just can't get a break from this guy, Nate thinks as he's making his way uptown, waving through traffic.

_____________

 

Five days later, Nate is standing at the reception desk of the Schutzstaffel headquarters, the only building related to the SS accessible to a small portion of the public. This is where officers are stationed when not out on missions.

 

“I have a delivery for Hauptscharführer Colbert,” Nate says as blandly as he can. He waits patiently as the uniformed man behind the desk examines his identification papers carefully.

 

“Personal delivery only,” the man reads off the envelope Nate is carrying. Nate nods and schools his face into disinterested politeness.

 

It isn’t uncommon to have independent couriers carry messages and documents to and from important members of the Partei. It makes a twisted sort of sense, Nate guesses. Everyone knows the party routinely opens letters and packages going through the normal postage system; it is a tried and true method every government is more than familiar with. This is where private couriers like Nate come in. Senders are always anonymous, and there’s no way to intercept every courier in the city; that makes getting your hands on one specific target nigh impossible.

 

Nate would appreciate the evidence of the Partei being so obviously fractured into suspicious factions spying on each other if it weren’t for the fact that he is currently inside a building full of people who would kill him if they knew why he is here. He isn’t taking Colbert off that list just yet.

 

After a long moment, the man at the reception hands him back his identification and stamps the envelope. “Twelfth floor, then on your right. You’ll see his name on the door,” he says curtly, not giving Nate another look. Nate nods his thanks and makes his way to the stairs.

 

He tries not to let himself scrutinize his surroundings too obviously, but he can’t help himself. Ever since Mike told him about Colbert, Nate figured he would have to interact with the man one way or another. He was hoping for later rather than sooner, and certainly not by being sent straight into the wolf’s den, but it was out of his hands. It was out of his hands as soon as Colbert got the drop on him in that alley.

 

The memory still burns hot in Nate’s mind, anger mixing with humiliation. All those years of hating the guy, for what? Not even getting a punch in when he had the chance?

 

He’s spoken to Mike since, at great lengths, asked him everything he knew about Colbert’s involvement in their affairs, until Mike gave up and told him to “just call Poke for Christ’s sake, Nate.”

 

So Nate had called Tony. He hadn’t expected the protectiveness in Tony’s voice and Tony’s words, still doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

 

“What do you mean _I know you hate him but be nice to him_? What the fuck, Tony?”

 

“I mean you don’t know him, and I hate to sound like a twelve year old girl defending her first boyfriend but it’s true, dog.”

 

“And you do? Do you really know him?”

 

“I know enough.”

 

“What does that ev–”

 

“Look, I already went through this with Mike, and even if you didn’t trust me, and I know you do, you trust him, right? I’m not asking you to like the guy, just to work with him. We need him. You need him, Nate.”

 

Tony had refused to say anything more on the subject, leaving Nate both appeased and frustrated. Whatever Tony has on the guy, Nate thinks for the hundredth time, it must be worth his weight in fucking gold.

 

Nate sighs and tries to make himself as invisible as possible in the stairway. It’s not difficult, as nobody so much as looks at him twice. He’s just another servant in the system, a messenger boy whose life is worth less than the message he’s carrying.

 

As he steps on the twelfth floor, he cannot help the rush of adrenaline that makes his heart beat faster and his senses sharpen all at once. He has been mentally preparing himself for this meeting since he received the instructions. His body is gearing up for a fight and he refuses to not let it. He won’t be caught off guard by Colbert again.

 

Nate turns right at the landing and walks down four doors before he reaches the one with ‘Haupscharführer B. Colbert’ inscribed in golden letters. He takes a deep breath, and knocks twice.

 

An unhurried “Come in” floats through the door.

 

Nate turns the handle and steps in and there they are again, facing each other. Colbert is half-sitting, half-leaning on his desk, hands in the pockets of his trousers, long legs stretched out in front of him. Waiting for him. Just like the first time, he makes a show of being relaxed. Nate holds himself straight, keeps his breath even, and reminds himself that his friends trust this man. He can hold off his own personal feelings for a couple of minutes, even if his fists are itching to get better acquainted with Colbert’s jaw.

 

Colbert watches him for a beat, his face devoid of any expression Nate can read, before nodding to the door Nate arrived through.

 

“Close it.”

 

His voice, just likes his face, gives nothing away, but the words have Nate’s fight response send a shock through his entire system. He grits his teeth, forces himself to remain calm, and closes the door. Colbert drops the pretense immediately, pushing off the desk to stand straight, with his feet shoulder width apart. His stance isn’t openly threatening, but he’s taking full advantage of his stature and the couple inches he has on Nate’s height.

That’s more like it, Nate thinks grimly.

 

“Delivery,” he says, holding out the envelope.

 

Colbert extends one long arm, grabs the envelope from Nate’s hands and tosses it on his desk without ever taking his eyes off Nate. Nate raises an eyebrow.

 

“I know what it is,” Colbert explains. Nate’s expression doesn’t waver. Colbert seems to get his point, because he adds, “I sent it.”

 

Motherfucker. Screw being calm. “You wanted me here for another round?” Nate spits, half-hoping for the answer to be yes.

 

Colbert doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t even smile. Instead, he gestures to Nate’s side. “How’s your kidney?”

 

“Fine,” Nate retorts, “I stopped pissing blood eventually.”

 

Colbert nods, as if this he expected as much. Nate’s fists clench.

 

“Now would be a good time to offer an apology, if we really are to work together,” Nate says tightly.

 

“I’m not sorry.” It comes out matter-of-fact, unapologetic in both meaning and tone.

 

Nate inhales sharply, has to reign himself in lest he does something stupid. Colbert isn’t done, though.

 

“You hate me,” he says, and Nate finally hears some semblance of feelings in his voice, something almost speculative. He snorts.

 

“Are you surprised?”

 

Colbert shakes his head, dismissing the question. “I meant you hate _me_. For you, this is personal.”

 

“And again,” Nate repeats, “Are you surprised?”

 

“You don’t know me.” There’s the same low fierceness in his tone that flashed briefly in his eyes when Nate had him back to the wall with a knife at his throat, snarling _I know exactly who you are_. This time, Nate forces himself to listen.

 

“Poke said the same thing,” he admits, though he doesn’t relax, adrenaline still coursing steadily through him.

 

At the name, Colbert’s expression soften a fraction, and he dips his gaze for the first time.

“Anthony’s a good man.”

 

Nate can’t tell what throws him more; hearing someone refer to Poke as Anthony, or Colbert’s sudden change in demeanour, the quiet sincerity in his words. He frowns, but Colbert doesn't let the moment last. He walks behind his desk, opens a drawer and takes out another envelope before coming back to Nate. He holds it out for Nate to take. The address on it is one that Nate doesn’t recognise, the street name so unfamiliar Nate is automatically suspicious. His work with Colbert will be limited to resistance purposes, he thought that was clear. He’s not running errands for this man.

 

“It’s for Mike,” Colbert says, as if reading Nate’s thoughts right off his face. Right. Dead men don’t have addresses and Colbert just needs a way to get in touch with Mike.

 

Without missing a beat, Nate tears the envelope open and slips its contents out. From the corner of his eyes, he thinks he sees Colbert smile. The text on the sheets is perfectly coded, using the new code Mike had Ray help him create a few weeks ago and told Nate to learn. It makes sense, to have Colbert operate with a different code, it’s safer. It keeps his information separate, and doesn’t allow him access to the rest. Nate doesn’t read all of it, it would take too long, but at first glance it looks like the time and place for future organised raids. It’s good information to have, if it is genuine.

 

He looks up at Colbert. “I don’t suppose you have another envelope.”

 

Colbert’s grin is as brief as it is brilliant. “As a matter of fact,” he says, as he strolls back to the desk, “I do.”

 

Out of the same drawer comes out another envelope with the same bogus address just as neatly written. Nate clenches his teeth, and slips the papers into the open envelope when Colbert holds it out for him. Colbert seals it, quick and precise, and hands it to Nate. He looks strangely satisfied.

 

“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Fick,” he intones politely.

 

Nate glares at him and leaves without a word. All the way down the stairs and out the wide entrance doors, he resists the urge to scratch at his crawling skin, and has to remind himself once more that he trusts Tony’s, Mike’s, and Ray’s judgment on this.

 

_____________

 

This will be fun, Brad thinks as he’s entering the room where the weekly briefing meeting is held. It’s only his second weekly briefing since coming back to New York, but Brad understands that this is where careers are made and destroyed.

 

Brad picks a chair near the front and ignores everyone in the room. His mind goes back to his meeting with Nate. He’ll have to find a way to improve their relationship. Brad won’t be able to continue his work unless Nate trusts him. Brad sighs. It will take some time, that’s for sure. Nate doesn’t make a secret out of his hatred for Brad.

 

His thoughts are interrupted when Godfather enters. He jumps to his feet, yelling “All for the Reich,” like everybody else. Godfather motions them to sit down, and starts the meeting.

 

“Alright, gents. Short meeting today, but important meeting. Important.” he stops for a moment, his gaze searching the room and making sure all eyes are on him.

 

“Point one. Black market activities are on the rise, and I cannot and will not stand those parasites. They undermine our economy, and Godfather wants to get rid of those leeches once and for all.” He nods and looks directly at Brad.

 

“Colbert, Godfather wants to you to take care of this problem.”

 

Brad nods. “Yes, sir.” He’s not surprised his commander picked him for this. It’s a good mission, an important one.

 

“Let me be clear, Colbert. I want you to focus on this. I know you’re able to do this, so if this problem doesn’t get better within the next six months, I’ll know you haven’t been focusing on it.” Godfather stares at Brad.

 

“Yes, sir,” Brad repeats. Six months. Plenty of time.

 

A hoarse cough draws Godfather’s attention away from Brad, and Brad can’t help but being silently relieved about it. Black market activities are obviously a bigger problem than anyone in the Partei would like to admit. Busting smugglers is not something he was trained for, but he won’t fail. Can’t fail.

 

“Colbert, I expect you to report on your progress in this meeting next week.” Godfather doesn’t wait for a reply before continuing.

 

“Moving on to point number two on the agenda. Partisans.” Brad leans forward, eager to hear Godfather’s side of this story. He’s been kept in secret by Nate and Michael about the bigger picture of their work – no doubt on purpose. It’s understandable, but frustrating as Brad doesn’t even know how big the cell operating here is. He could help them better if he knew what they needed.

 

“As you know, these traitors have become an increasing problem in this city.” The crowd around Godfather hisses and boos. Brad wants to shake his head at their theatrics. “We will, of course eradicate those terrorists in the long term, but those rats have now managed to smuggle a considerable number of undesirables out of our reach.” Again, noises of disbelief.

 

“In order to get a grip on this problem and give those terrorists what they deserve, Godfather has decided to tackle this problem himself.” Brad’s not the only one staring at their commander in disbelief. For Godfather to take this on, the problem must be huge, just as the pressure coming from above to solve it.  

 

Brad tilts his head up high and tries to catch Godfather’s eyes, offering his assistance. Information on this mission would be more than welcome in the resistance.

 

Godfather nods at Brad in acknowledgement, but says, “I know you have experience with this, Colbert, but it is my intention to keep the circle of people involved in this as small as possible.”

 

Brad nods back, face blank but mind racing. This isn’t good news. Strategically speaking, it would make sense for the General to involve as many people as possible in this, to focus all their effort onto hunting the cell down. They have far more manpower than the cell could handle in the best of circumstances. If Godfather wants to keep his team small, it can only mean one thing: anything bigger and he suspects details of the operation would get out.

 

Perhaps it’s just typical paranoia - you cannot rule the world and not be afraid of someone plotting to bring it down - but it could be more. Perhaps Godfather already has his suspicions about the presence of a traitor in their rows. It must be baseless suspicions. Any concrete elements and their suspect would go straight to having the truth tortured out of them. It just means, Brad reminds himself, that he has to be more careful here than he was out there in the Neutral Zone.

 

“Moving on to agenda item three. Kaizen’s visit.” The atmosphere in the room visibly deflates, the good parts now over. Even Godfather looks like he couldn’t care less about it. “You know he’s coming to visit in six months.”

 

“Yeah, who cares about that Jap,” one guy, Brad thinks it might be Steinmeier, mumbles audibly. People around him agree. Brad’s glad he already has his official orders - being in charge of the security for this visit must be the absolute end of the line job that nobody wants.

 

Godfather continues. “We need to make sure that sonofabitch doesn’t get hurt while he’s here. Would give those idiots plenty of reasons to shit on us, and Godfather doesn’t like being shit on.” He tosses a thick folder to a guy in the first row.

 

“Schwetje, you’re responsible for making sure the guy survives his visit.” The guy - Schwetje - clutches the folder with something like desperation. State visits are always a headache; too many public visits, too many outings in the street, and the Japanese always, without fail, want to visit Times Square. Apparently, it’s featured in so many of their shows that getting a picture taken there has become the ultimate status symbol. Of course, it also means the headache of providing security in one of the busiest places of the city. Brad doesn’t envy the guy for this job.

 

“Okay, people, that’s it for now. Meet here again next week. Colbert, Schwetje, I expect detailed progress reports. All for the Reich.”

 

“All for the Reich,” they repeat in unison, and, at least in Brad’s case, completely automatically. He’s already thinking about how to get in touch with Michael. Things are moving quickly, and they need to be on top of it.  

 

He’s still lost in thought when he hears his name. As he turns around, he sees Schwetje making his way to him, still clutching the folder to his chest.

 

“Brad! I was hoping I’d be able to catch you before you left.”

 

At the sound of his first name, Brad grits his teeth, but Schwetje doesn’t notice. He stares at Brad with an earnest, if perpetually baffled, look on his face. Brad turns around and starts walking down the hallway to his office, hoping he can shake the guy off by walking quickly and taking full advantage of his long legs. No such luck. Schwetje, despite ape-like features and round eyes that make him look as threatening as an oatmeal cookie, is about as tall as Brad and keeps up easily.

 

“So I was thinking you could help me with the security plan?” He makes it sound like a question.

 

“No.” Brad’s answer is clear as it is curt. There’s no way he’s going to get involved in this. He’s heard stories about Schwetje, and none of them make Brad want to work with him.

 

“But–”

 

Brad interrupts him immediately. “You heard Godfather. I’ll be focusing on the black market activities, Schwetje. I think that deserves my attention, don’t you?” He stares at the other man, taking full advantage of his height.

 

“Of course… I mean… it was just an idea… would love to get your input…” Schwetje stumbles.

 

All of a sudden, a new idea enters Brad’s mind. It would be good for him to have access to the security plan, but he doesn’t want people to know he had access to it. He needs to be able to keep his hands clean, and the way people passing them in the hallway are listening to their conversation is the perfect cover. Pleased, Brad remembers it’s lunch time for the assistants and secretaries now. Within five minutes, the entire building will know he blew Schwetje off. Perfect.

 

“I don’t think that’s going to be possible,” Brad says, voice clear and louder than usual. The security plan will probably be distributed before the visit. With the number of people involved in security duty, everybody will have access to it sooner or later.

 

“That’s my office. See you at the meeting next week.” With that, Brad closes the door on Schwetje, leaving the guy standing in the hallway.

 

Brad walks to his desk, trying to get his thoughts in order. First things first. He needs to get in contact with Michael and Nate.

 

He waits until he’s home to make the phone call. He takes a beer out of his fridge, and walks to the phone in the living room. He slowly dials 9999 and waits for the ring tone, hoping it will work. Michael told him he could get in touch with him like this, but this is the first time Brad tries it. It seems kind of incredible that the resistance would be able to manipulate the public phone system like that. But then, Michael hasn’t proven himself a liar so far.

 

“Psychic hotline, you have the wrong number,” a voice says, high and cheerful.

 

“Psychotic, more like it,” Brad says, not quite sure what is going on, but reasonably certain that he got the right number. Michael did warn him about their communications guy.

 

To his surprise, there is a pause then the guy on the other end of the line laughs. “Tall blond Aryan supersoldier, _and_ you have a sense of humour? Oh my, oh my! You really are perfect, aren’t you? I mean, apart from the whole out-to-kill-me thing –that’s a real bummer. I’m not saying I never jerked off to pictures of you, but that’s as far as we’ll ever go, Bradley, you have to understand.”

 

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Brad says, not sure what else to say.

 

“A man must have his secrets, Bradley. How do you expect me to keep the romance alive if you won’t let me retain some mystery?”

 

“I… wouldn’t know,” Brad deadpans.

 

The guy on the other end of the line manages to convey his amusement without making a sound. “Anyways, what can I do you for today?”

 

“I need to talk to Michael,” Brad says, hoping that will suffice. He has no real way of contacting Michael besides sending a letter to him via Nate, but Brad needs to talk to him, discuss his plan. Sending letters back and forth will take too long, and Nate can only show up in his office so often before people start noticing him.

 

“Oh, Brad, you’re one of us social rejects now. You can call him Mike, he won’t mind. You know what? I told Poke that you still called him Anthony, and he’s hurt, Bradley. He’s hurt.”

 

“He’s not,” Brad says, automatically. This conversation took a wrong turn somewhere, and Brad isn’t sure when. Possibly when whoever is on the other end picked up.

 

“Well, okay, he thought it was hilarious and he may have laughed at you. My point still stands, dude. Seriously, it’s Mike. Nobody calls him Michael, ever.”

 

With a start, Brad realizes the phone line is so good he can hear paper shuffling in the background. Before he can stop himself, he asks, “How do you do that?”

 

“You pinch your lips together and make a sound, like a hum, then you open your mouth wide, mmmaaaaaaaah-”

 

“No,” Brad groans. Jesus fucking Christ. “The phone. I can hear noises in the background, faint but clear, paper rustling. These sounds shouldn’t carry through a telephonic communication. This is better than the official system, even the one for Generals.”

 

He hears the smugness in the answer. “Yeah, well, your buddies may think they’re the Superior Species, or whatever the fuck they’re calling it these days, but they don’t have your pal Ray-Ray. Anyways, here’s Mike for you. I got your six, homes.”

 

With that, Brad hears a beep, then a ring tone, before the call gets picked up.

 

“Yes?” Mike’s voice is not one you forget easily.

 

“Mike, it’s Brad.” The name still lies wrong on Brad’s tongue, but Ray was right, in a way. Brad’s part of their team now.

 

“Yes, Ray said it was you,” Mike’s voice sounds gentle and slightly amused.

 

“Is he always like that?” Brad asks, not what he wanted to ask, but something he wants to know, if only to be prepared next time.

 

Mike scoffs. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Though it does keep things interesting.”

 

“Ha.” Brad wonders what Ray is like face-to-face, wonders if he’ll ever meet him. Probably not. Hopefully not.

 

“How are things?” Mike asks, and Brad allows himself to think about the answer for a second.

 

“Good, I think. We had our weekly briefing today, and there were a couple of things we should discuss.”

 

“Absolutely. Do you mind if I bring Nate on the line? He’ll want to give some input as well.” He waits, as if he genuinely cares for Brad’s answer.

 

Brad wants to say no. Nate’s too … defiant, hates him too much. Then again, they’ll have to work together, will have to sort out their differences eventually if they want to make this work. Better start now, right away. And what better way to show Nate Brad’s value to their organization than by giving him information nobody else can provide?

 

“Of course,” Brad says. He hears buttons being pushed, and suddenly both Mike and Nate are saying, “Brad?”

 

“Yes,” Brad repeats.

 

“Okay, looks like we’re all good,” Mike says. “Brad, go ahead.”

 

Brad takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “Alright, first thing, I’m in charge of uprooting  black market in the city. I’ll conduct a couple of raids this week, so if you’re involved, stay away from the usual spots, or I’ll have to arrest you.”

 

The silence from Mike and Nate speaks volumes. That’s what Brad thought. The resistance would have to finance their activities somehow, and selling illegal stuff is just an extension of their usual trade.

 

“Thanks, Brad. We’ll keep it in mind,” Mike says, and Brad cannot help but notice that he’s still no closer to getting more information on the cell than before. Mike is good. Very good.

 

“Next, the security plan for Kaizen’s visit is currently being worked on, but I can’t get my hands on it just yet, unless you need it urgently.” He could always break into Schwetje’s office, he supposes.

 

“Don’t worry about it for now. I’m sure you’ll get it to us with plenty of time to plan something.” The trust in Mike’s voice surprises Brad. It’s true, though - Brad doubts Schwetje can come up with a plan he won’t find a couple of flaws in right away. But still.

 

“Okay.” Brad takes a deep breath before continuing. “So it seems like you have been doing a great job here. Enough to get Godfather’s attention.”

 

He can hear one of the two, he’s not sure who, draw in a surprised breath. “So much so that Godfather has decided to take the fight against terrorists personally.”

 

“That’s not good,” Nate says, voice even.

 

“No, it’s not. It’s even worse because he didn’t tell anybody what he’s about to do. Says he wants to keep the circle small.”

 

“Shit. Does he suspect a mole?” Mike asks, and Brad is pleased to hear that Mike understands how the Reich works.

 

“No, he can’t, he’d have them arrested already. Probably just the usual paranoia,” Nate says, dismissively.

 

“Either way,” Brad continues, “it means I’m not going to be much help in this. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t worry, Brad. You’re playing enough for both teams already to make your life extremely hard, and this would just complicate things beyond belief for you,” Mike says. “Besides, if you don’t show results, you’ll get in deep trouble, and I don’t want you to have to choose between your life or ours.”

 

“I wouldn’t sell you out,” Brad blurts, hoping Mike understands.

 

“Yeah, but I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself for us, either.”

 

Brad doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

 

“Anything else?” Nate says.

 

“Not for now. Don’t forget about the black market. Stay away from it. I’ll call you when I have news.”

 

“Okay, Brad. Take care,” Mike says and the sincerity in his words shock Brad.

 

“You too,” he says, and hangs up. He’s looking out of the windows overlooking the city, and for the first time in forever, thinks he might be doing the right thing.

  
_____________

 

**MARCH**

 

 

> **RAIDS FOCUS ON BLACK MARKET TRADE**
> 
> March 20, 1961
> 
>  
> 
> Armed forces today executed search warrants at multiple residences in the greater port area as part of an ongoing operational focus on illegal trade in basic consumer goods.
> 
>  
> 
> Oliver Thomas, Spokesperson for the Ministry of Justice, said today’s raids followed the execution of multiple warrants and will be part of an ongoing enquiry in the ensuing months.
> 
>  
> 
> “Extensive operations are currently being planned and executed to identify people who bring in restricted goods into the Greater Reich, and then sell their goods illegally, including by selling directly to consumers, and to commercial businesses,” Mr Thomas said.
> 
>  
> 
> “Everybody knows about the list of prohibited and restricted goods in the Reich. Every citizen knows that these restrictions have been put into place to devoid the people of inferior influences. The Reich is strong enough to provide for her own. Every trade with these listed goods is illegal and considered to be the highest level of offense, as it doesn’t just introduce unwanted elements into the public, it also deprives the Reich of valuable resources.”
> 
>  
> 
> Today’s raid led to the seizure of more than one ton in prohibited goods, processing equipment, and a vessel. A number of people who were clearly involved in this abominable crime have been arrested and are currently being interrogated at the headquarters.
> 
>  
> 
> Mr Thomas confirmed that it was Hauptscharführer Colbert’s elite force Kampfhund that conducted the raid, but declined to comment further on any details.
> 
>  
> 
> Black market activities strike at the heart of, and the intent and operation of, the economy of the Reich. Everybody who participates in this trade is a traitor to the people and will be treated as such.
> 
>  
> 
> We can only congratulate Hauptscharführer Colbert and his forces for their tireless work for the Reich.
> 
>  
> 
> Everyone who has information on illegal activities should do their civic duty and call the reporting line 1800 - 555 - 507 immediately or report to their nearest security bureau.

 

Ray snorts when he reads the last sentence of the article. Then a thought pops into his mind so suddenly that he stops on the sidewalk, causing the man behind him to bump into him. Ray mumbles a quiet ‘sorry’ which is barely acknowledged and starts walking again. By the time he’s in his apartment, he knows exactly what he’s gonna do.

 

Ray is in the middle of preparing his dinner, bread with ersatz butter, completed by a cup of genuine coffee, when his phone rings. Poke had offered to send genuine butter through to Ray, but Ray chose coffee instead. Apart from the logistical nightmare of moving perishable goods around, Ray would rather go without food than coffee.

 

He walks up to his desk and checks which line is calling.  He smiles when he sees it’s Brad’s line from his apartment. They realized what he did, then. He swallows - his momma taught him manners, even though some people would argue with that - before he answers the phone, smiling broadly.

 

“New York City Morgue. You snuff them, we stuff them. How can I help you?”

 

“Ray.”

 

Brad’s voice comes out emotionless, but Ray knows Brad well enough to know that the guy is anything but the iceman everyone thinks him to be. He and Poke have had a chat about it. It’s not like they are having gossip rounds, they are serious resistance fighters, but every now and then Ray likes to check in on his ragtag family, and if Poke asks how Brad is doing, well, who is Ray to deny Poke an answer?

 

“Don’t worry, Bradley. One of these days, your Ray-Ray will get you to crack. In fact, if you want to know, there’s a betting pool going on. If I manage to render you speechless, I’ll get some good ham in Poke’s next delivery. You could just do me a favour and lose it, you know.”

 

“There’s a betting pool.”

 

Brad, Ray realizes, rarely asks questions, and for a moment, Ray wonders if that’s something the military did to him or if it’s part of Brad’s integral character. If there is a difference between the two at all.

 

“Yeah. Poke and Rudy. Pap just said ‘a bending willow doesn’t break’, whatever that means. You know Pap, he makes Cassandra look like the epitome of sanity.” Ray ogles his bread while he decides where to take another bite.

 

“No, Ray, I wouldn’t know.” Brad’s voice sounds long-suffering, and Ray suddenly realizes that Brad never met Rudy or Pap or Lilley. Technically, he never even met _Ray_.

 

(Ray did check out Brad after Mike told him he was playing on their side, though. He had to. Ray might trust Poke, he is also a paranoid little fucker. There was no way he’d let Colbert anywhere near their business without submitting him to the Ray Person Test of Trustworthiness. Ray had considered cutting the phone line at Brad’s apartment and then pretending to be the repair guy before remembering this was Hauptscharführer Brad Colbert they were talking about. If the guy was only half as good as they said he was – there is no way all the stories about him are true – Ray probably wouldn’t even make it past the porch before Colbert realized something was off about him. Ray knows he is good at impersonation, but he also knows Colbert is better at noticing things. So that plan was never put into action.

 

Instead, he did something that Mike called “utterly disgusting and irresponsible.” But Ray told him that the end justified the means, and besides, Ray was to work with Brad, so he had to know more about this guy, right?

 

Nate had only sighed and said “that’s no reason to break into his apartment, Ray. Imagine if you had gotten caught.”

 

Ray snorted. As if he would get caught. It was surprisingly easy to break into the apartment - something he should tell Brad at some point, once he figured out how to tell him without admitting he had found out first hand. And then Ray had a look around.

 

It was sparsely furnished, but that’s what Ray expected from Hauptscharführer Colbert. The apartment was situated on the top level floor of the building, giving Colbert a grand view of New York. Ray stared out of the window for a long time, trying to imagine what the city had looked like before the Germans came. His momma had sometimes talked about it, about how things were. The freedoms they had. The future they could have had.

 

With a shudder, Ray turned away from the glass window. No way of knowing, and no use in guessing. Instead, he walked over to the black leather couch at the center of the room. The leather was unbelievably soft. Only the best for the pride of the Reich, Ray supposed. The couch looked like it had never been sat on, pillows perched perfectly at the ends of it. Ray silently laughed when trying to imagine Brad spreading out on the couch after a long day at work.

 

The kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped, and Ray wondered if that was because an interior design choice or Brad’s own. Again, it looked untouched, plucked straight out of a photoshoot in one of those fancy magazines that Nate loved ranting about.

 

Ray whistled when he opened the fridge - clearly, Colbert wasn’t living on food stamps like the rest of them. Butter, Yoghurt and - was that chocolate? Ray resisted the urge to take the bar. Instead, he ignored the rumbling of his stomach and closed the fridge.

 

He hesitated for a second before using the stairs to go up. Nothing so far had given him any clue about Brad. The apartment had obviously been furnished for him, and there was no trace of the occupant’s personality to be seen anywhere. It might as well have been a movie set.

 

When he got to the top of the stairs, Ray slowly whistled. A gigantic bed dominated the space. He felt the softness of the sheets, and wondered whether having your own bed and linen was the real reason Brad wasn’t living in the barracks.

 

He kept moving, picking up the book from the bedside table. Balancing on top of it was an official-looking piece of paper. Ticket for the 1961 Met season opening. Wagner, of course, Ray thought and shook his head. He would never understand the Reich’s obsession with that composer. He didn’t envy Brad for that ticket, that was for certain. He put it back, careful to mark the same page it had been in.

 

Belatedly, Ray looked to check what book it was. Sun-Tzu’s The Art of War. No surprise here. The book looked-well worn, the pages feeling soft and the cover slightly bended. Ray thumbed through the book until it fell open where a bookmark was stuck. The bookmark turned out to be a book page, torn from somewhere, and so flat it must have been kept pressed for years. On it was a quote that froze Ray to the spot. “More life may trickle out of men through thought than through a gaping wound,” it read, and Ray thought about it, and thought about what he knew of Colbert, and thought about what Poke had told him. He frowned, put the book back exactly where he’d found it, and left as quietly as he had arrived.)

 

“Ray. RAY,” Brad yells in his ear, drawing Ray back to the present. Right. That thing.

 

“Yes, honey?” Ray tries to remember what they had talked about, but before he can, Brad continues.

 

“What the on earth were you thinking? Is this all just a joke to you?”

 

“Oh. So it worked. Tell me, Bradley. Did Godfather get his panties in a twist and all?”

 

Brad snorts. “No, but he is seriously displeased, and he’s not hiding it. Half the headquarters got chewed out today. No one has a clue how to un-do it. How on earth did you manage to pull this off?”

 

Ray smiles, and for the first time in a long time, he feels happy. Working for the resistance is shit work most of the time. More sadness and heartbreak than you’d imagine. No way of knowing if you’ll live to see tomorrow. Worse, no way of knowing if your friends are okay. Ray knows he shouldn’t call without reason, but sometimes he has to. He checks in with everybody, makes sure they are still alive, that they haven’t disappeared over night. It’s happened before, and it will happen again. Ray’s momma didn’t raise no fool - Ray knows they won’t make it out of this alive. And so every time Ray picks up the phone to call one of them, he’s terrified that nobody will answer.

 

But every now and then, their work can be fun. So Ray smiles, hoping his happiness will carry over the line to Brad, because Ray knows that Brad needs it.

 

“What? Transferring all calls to the snitch-line to various brothels around the city? I’m insulted, Bradley. You should know what a genius your pal Ray-Ray is.”

 

It seems to work, because Brad sounds like he’s smiling a bit when he answers. “Yeah, whatever you do, just make sure you’re not getting caught, okay?”

 

“No problemo, homes. Do you want to talk to Mike or was this just a call to yours truly?”

 

“No, I have to run.” Brad sounds like he doesn’t want to leave, though, and suddenly Ray realizes why.

 

“Wait, wait, wait. Brad. Isn’t the Opera season opening today?”

 

“Perhaps, though I wouldn’t know why a hick like you would even know what an opera is.”

 

“I’m hurt, Bradley. Right here.” Ray taps on his heart, knowing the effect will be lost on Brad. Instead, he continues. “Does that mean that Bradley Colbert, our sunshine child, doesn’t want to go to see Wagner?”  

 

Brad sounds petulant, if Hauptscharführer Colbert could ever sound petulant. “It’s goddamn endless, Ray. Endless. You’re there for hours and it never fucking ends.”

 

Ray can’t help it. He sniggers. “Well, everybody needs to make sacrifices for the Reich, you know. All for the Reich and stuff. Go put on your pretty uniform that’ll send the ladies of the Reich into hysteria. Can’t wait to read all about it in the paper tomorrow.”

 

“Ha, ha.” Brad says, deadpan, which only makes Ray laugh harder. But the seriousness in his voice sobers Ray up.

 

“Ray, I’m serious. Godfather is not pleased about that stunt, and he will be out hunting you down. Be careful.”

 

Ray nods. “I know, buddy. Not my first rodeo, you know.”

 

“Right. Tell Mike and Nate about Godfather’s reaction, will you?”

 

“Sure, homes. Have fun at the Opera. Seduce rich heiresses and kiss them senseless in the broom cupboard, or whatever it is you rich people do.”

 

“You have a very weird mind, Ray, and I don’t mean that in a good way.” Brad hesitates for a moment before continuing. “Take care.”

 

“You too, Brad.”

 

The line goes dead and Ray stares at the phone for a second before hanging up, hoping, as usual, that this is not the last time he’s spoken to one of his friends.

  
_____________

 

The problem with Ray, Brad ponders as he puts down the phone, is that the guy is simply too damn perceptive. Less than four months into working with him, and  Ray is better at gauging Brad’s mood than anybody else Brad has ever worked with. Brad prides himself in his ability to deceive even the most perceptive officers in the Reich - but he can’t bullshit Ray. Which makes that inbred disaster of a human being more competent than the best of the Reich. Ain’t that a scary thought. And it doesn’t even take into consideration his skills when it comes to radios.

 

Going into this, it had been one of Brad’s fears that he would work with amateurs, kids who saw this resistance business as an exciting hobby. Instead, he got to work with the best people he’s ever met. In fact, every single member of the resistance he’s been working with so far has been outstanding in their respective fields.

 

Hell, Mike would have made a great commanding officer. It’s no wonder he was a troop leader. Brad could imagine working under Mike, working with Mike, planning operations, conducting raids. The Reich lost a great asset the day Michael Wynn decided to play for the other team.

 

Same with Ray, Brad thinks as he walks up to his closet. Besides the unfortunate verbal diarrhea, that imbecile is better at handling communications and radio equipment than anybody Brad’s ever worked with. If only he could to keep his mouth shut for three seconds. Still, it could come in handy. Brad would bet that Ray’s mouth got him out of many a tricky situation before. The guy is capable of pelting you with so much bullshit and brilliance in a single sentence that giving up would seem easier than trying to make heads or tail of what he’s actually saying. It isn’t a skill Brad envies, but one he can recognise the strategic value of.

 

A small chuckle escapes Brad when he allows himself to imagine what working with Ray would be like. Nightly stakeouts, radio silence interrupted by Ray pointing out birds fucking on the next roof. Ray fixing the radio with nothing more than spit and spite. Brad shakes his head, waiting for a wave of repulsion that doesn’t come.

 

Hauptscharführer Colbert works best alone, he’s known for that. He may lead a team, but he’s not part of it. He always found that working alone gave him a sense of security and peace that working in a team never did. But to Brad, well. To Brad, the idea of being part of a team doesn’t seem so bad at all.

 

Mostly, he thinks as he pulls out his tuxedo from the dry cleaning bag, because he found people that are good enough to keep up with him. Take Poke. Brad has yet to find someone who matches that guy when it comes to moving goods and people around. While the Reich is having trouble supplying her troops with batteries or even enough food – Brad has been there, cold, hungry and waiting for a supply drop that he knew would never come – Poke’s smuggling operation smoothly and regularly crosses the most protected border in the world.

 

And then, Brad thinks as he puts on his tuxedo jacket and tugs on his bowtie to make it lie perfectly, then there’s Nate. It’s hard to imagine a scenario where Brad would have met Nate at work. Nate’s too good, too upstanding, too sure that the fight he’s fighting is righteous. Nate would never wear the black uniform, never go along with the orders Brad’s given. Nate wouldn’t.

 

The reflection in the mirror in the entryway catches his eyes as he leaves. Shoes shining, tuxedo tailored to perfection, bowtie lying perfectly, sharp blue eyes and not a single blond hair out of place. He looks perfect.

 

Brad heads out without looking back. There’s a car waiting for him and he dislikes tardiness.

 

The opera opening, when Brad finally arrives, is the same as any social event of the Reich. Same people, same gossip, same food. He’s only been in New York for a few short months, but he’s already tired of this horse show.  

 

If Brad were to be honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d rather be at home. But that’s not a train of thought Brad Colbert can have, so instead he compiles a list of people he should talk to. General Stubenheimer. Ambassador Fink (his wife caused a huge scandal when it turned out she had a thing with the Ecuadorian ambassador, so don’t inquire about her health.) Old Ernie will probably be there, too, since no news of his demise has made it into the papers yet. Brad will have to outmaneuver any attempt at handshaking. How can someone with so much money be so aggressively repugnant is beyond him. Doesn’t he have servants to draw his baths for him?

 

Brad looks around the reception area. The High Society of the Reich, all spread out and assembled in one place. He mentally tallies what he knows about each guest. For allegedly being the ‘superior race’, every single one of them has more flaws and disgusting secrets than should be allowed. And that’s only the stuff Brad knows about.

 

Now is not the time to let his distaste show, though. He’s working on correcting this, he reminds himself, he’s doing something instead of playing along.

 

He’s on his way to the bar for his second whisky - more for something to occupy his hands than to actually drink - when he sees Mrs Sondermeier. He makes an acute turn to the left and uses the crowd as cover. Brad Colbert is willing to face countless enemies without flinching, but he will not face Mrs Sondermeier and her three boring, single daughters ever again.

 

To his relief, he sees that the lady wasn’t even aiming for him. Instead, she grabs a young, blond guy from the crowd and pushes him towards a sofa where her three daughters are lined up like a particularly lackluster buffet.

 

Good luck, kid, Brad thinks as he flags the bartender for his whisky. He keeps observing the crowd, aware that the crowd observes him right back. See and be seen, Brad thinks.

 

“Excuse me?” a polite voice to his right says.

 

Brad’s head swivels lazily and he sees, to his astonishment, the young man Mrs Sondermeier dragged to the sofa a couple of minutes ago.

 

Without thinking, he blurts out, “How on earth did you get away from her so fast?”

 

The guy just smiles, which makes him look even younger, as his cheeks pink slightly. “Well, she was very insistent, you see.”

 

Brad sips at his drink to save himself the indignity of snorting. They’ve all been there, Mrs Sondermeier’s desperation to wed her daughters away legendary among eligible bachelors at this point.

 

“I pretended not to notice I was eating a shrimp amuse-bouche until the taste hit and said I was deathly allergic to shellfish and needed to go to the restroom immediately. I am not actually allergic to shellfish,” he confesses, sheepish, “but I am allergic to peanuts, so the allergy issue isn’t entirely made up.” He seems to believe that the distinction is important, and subtly casts a glance over his shoulder, as if to check that Mrs Sondermeier isn’t standing behind him, ready to call him out and drag him back to the sofa.

 

Brad finds himself oddly disarmed. An involuntary smile tugs at his lips and he extends his hand. “I will never betray the trust of a fellow target. Brad Colbert.”

 

The guy shakes his hand. “Walter Hasser. You can call me Walt.”

 

Hasser, Brad muses, trying to place that name in the social mindmap. “You’re the son of the new German ambassador.”

 

Walt nods. “Arrived a week ago. I can’t believe a Wagner premiere is my first social outing. I thought I’d had left that behind in Germany,” he grimaces.

 

“Not a fan of dear Richard?” Brad asks, keeping his voice neutral.

 

“Are you?” Walt asks, looking at Brad directly. Brad doesn’t know the kid, but there’s a weight to the question that catches his attention, something pointed mixed with carefully veiled frustration.

 

Wagner is the Führer’s favourite composer and the unofficial embodiment of the music of the Reich. Even if Brad were the type to trust people he’s just met, this is neither the time nor the place to have a heart to heart about ideological leanings. Either Hasser genuinely dislikes Wagner, or he needs to keep a much tighter rein on his political views. Brad’s shields go back up.

 

“There’s certainly a lot of him to enjoy,” he replies, polite and entirely bland.

 

“Damn right,” Walt says, and lifts his drink. Brad clinks his glass against Walt’s.

 

Their toast is interrupted by the stage lights dimming, announcing the opera will start in five minutes and prompting everybody to get to their seats.

 

Walt just looks at Brad. “Good luck.”

 

“Where are you seated?” Brad finds himself asking. Be it for his own protection or Walt’s, keeping on eye on him seems like a good idea.

 

“Grand Tier, front row,” Walt reads off his ticket, so unexcited it’s almost comical.

 

“Excellent seats,” Brad tilts his head in mock appreciation. “Fantastic acoustic. You’ll get to enjoy the performance in all its glory. And everybody will be able to see how enchanted you are.”

 

“I know,” Walt scowls. “Where are you?”

 

“Well, as I am not a distinguished newcomer who must be treated to the best our city has to offer, I have been relegated to the dress circle. Not even center.” His affected disappointment does not fool Walt, who stares at Brad’s ticket with unabashed longing.

 

“I don’t suppose you would be so kind as to inform me if any of your neighbours would like to trade and enjoy the comfort of a Grand Tier seat?”

 

Brad grins and heads towards the stairs, leaving Walt to his fate. When he gets to his assigned booth, Old Ernie is already seated. He offers Brad a big, gummy grin.

 

It takes every ounce of self control for Brad to wait until the end of Act I to fetch Walt and have him generously offer his seat to the smelly aristocrat.

 

To Brad’s endless amusement, Walt’s dislike for Wagner is entirely genuine. Even better, the young man has no poker face. He physically cringes at the first notes of Ride of the Valkyries. Brad would still rather be at home, but at least this time he has something to distract him. To his credit, Walt is good-natured about it. He catches Brad silently laughing at him a few times and offers a wry smile in return. The dreaded evening turns out to be strangely companionable.

 

It still seems to take a decade before the Magic Fire Music resolves into E major – and really, Brad cannot help thinking, _Magic Fire Music_? For fuck’s sake – and the curtain finally falls. The applause, of course, is thunderous. Brad reluctantly gets to his feet and claps as politely as he can. From the corner of his eye, he notices Walt doing the same. Brad turns slightly, intending to congratulate Walt on surviving his first big social event in New York, but where it was open if annoyed, Walt’s face is now somber, his mouth set in a tight, angry line as his eyes rove the crowd. Brad straightens, snaps his gaze back to the stage.

 

“All for the beauty and superiority of the Great Germany,” Walt mutters under his breath, so dry and bitter that Brad’s clapping almost falters.

 

It’s said too low for anyone else to have heard, would have been too low even for Brad if he hadn’t been paying close attention. He doesn’t react, keeps clapping, and wonders if he’s just made a friend, got saddled with a new liability, or should start watching himself even more carefully. A friendly face doesn’t say much about a person these days.

 

Once the applause dies down, a frankly unreasonable amount of time later, and guests start making their way out to the reception hall, Brad and Walt lag behind in the hope that most people will have already left by the time they make it to the grand hall. They resume their casual conversation, Brad points out notable faces in the many framed pictures on the wall. Goebbels, here to witness the first show after the surrender. Callas, starting her career in this very house. The Führer himself, opening the gala on the fifth anniversary of the surrender of the United States of America and subsequent creation of the National Socialist States of America.

 

They slowly make their way downstairs, reveling in the rich history of their surroundings. None of Walt’s reactions trigger Brad’s suspicion. Still, he keeps his guard up. Walt’s parents are standing under the high arched entrance, conversing with a couple of people in low, excited tones.

 

“Looks like your parents enjoyed the show,” Brad makes sure to keep his tone light.

 

Walt scoffs. “They’ve had more years to perfect fake enthusiasm,” he says. “Trust me, as soon as we get home, there will be groans and the question of why always Wagner?”

 

Brad slows his pace, lets the last guests walk past them and stops when the hall is empty except for him and Walt. Walt stops with him, quirks an inquisitive eyebrow. Brad straightens, keeps his face carefully blank, and speaks in a carefully detached tone.

 

“Walter,” he says, “While I haven’t had the pleasure of going to Germany recently to judge for myself, news of the waning health of our Führer did reach us. Now, I do not know if the possibility of his approaching demise is why you seem to consider acceptable to be lax in your beliefs, but you are not in Germany anymore. Today, you were welcomed to the capital of the Greater Reich. Herr Hitler might be an aging man, but his leading men here are not. I suggest you remember this and behave accordingly. Your attitude and your words tonight were not what one would expect of the son of someone as politically prominent as your father. Should it go on, we might meet in less favorable circumstances.”

 

The hall is bright enough that Brad notices how Walt’s skin pales. He doesn’t drop Brad’s gaze, doesn’t fidget, but his unease, while subtle, is there for Brad to pick up on.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Walt replies cooly, before offering a bland smile. “Shall we join my parents? I don’t think you have been introduced yet.”

 

They haven’t, so Brad follows. Ambassador Hasser seems a decent enough man, not as friendly as his son, which is probably for the best. Brad makes sure to introduce himself by his full military rank. They shake hands, exchange a few pleasantries. Brad compliments Mrs Hasser’s dress and tells her she looks beautiful. He doesn’t need to lie, she is an attractive woman. She raises an amused eyebrow at him, but it’s good-natured. She exudes the same friendly openness as Walt, but Walt did have a point: she isn’t as carefree as her son. The introductions follow the usual script to the letter, not a word out of place, and soon enough the Hassers are bundled into a private car to be driven back to their residence.

 

Brad decides to forego motorized transportation and ignores the bell boy trying to herd him towards one of the cars. Instead, he heads towards W 64th. The 20 minute walk through Central Park to his place should help him sort through his thoughts. Wagner might have been as drab as usual, but the Hassers certainly made the evening more exciting.

 

He needs to call Ray. But, more urgently, he needs to gets out of this tuxedo. He tugs at his bowtie, loosens it enough to slip it over his head and unceremoniously shoves it in his breast pocket. It’s the middle of the night and he is surrounded by trees, fuck the grooming standards. The top three buttons of his shirt are next. With the sounds of Broadway and the city fading away with each step, Brad allows himself to relax a fraction. He is self aware enough to know that the fact that he’s always felt more comfortable holding an MP28 than wearing a tie says a lot about him. He rolls up his sleeves, and replays the evening in his head.

 

Brad hasn’t met many spies, but if Walt is one, he is excellent. His persona seems entirely genuine. Nothing in his behaviour, his words, or even small gestures, betrayed the slightest hint of deceit. He radiates honesty to a degree that seems unwise. Unless the big blue eyes and boyish smile conceal a ruthless nature, it’s a wonder Hasser has made it this far. Especially if his aversion for the Reich and his home country were not faked.

 

Who the fuck comes up to him of all people, goddamn Hauptscharführer Colbert, and starts blabbering subversive political opinions? Is the kid completely retarded? Above all else, this is what Brad cannot get over. Walt seemed like a sensible enough young man, charming, well-bred, obviously used to navigating the social dos and don'ts of high society. And then this. Brad can’t make heads or tails of it, and it’s making his skin crawl. If Hasser was there to bait him, something will have to be done. Now more than ever, he cannot afford his carefully crafted life to come under closer scrutiny.

 

As he exits the park on the corner of 5th and East 76th, flashes go off from a distance. Brad grits his teeth. Talk about scrutiny. It’s all part of his cover now, though, and Brad has years of experience creating and using propaganda. The gossip mags might make him want to punch all those so-called journalists in the face, they gave him the support of the entire nation.

 

Brad has to hope that, in the event of his demise, the absurd love his country has been conditioned into having for him would sway its people enough to make them question their own beliefs.

 

In the meantime, though, he needs to know how to handle one Walter Hasser.

 

The paps don’t follow him home, they never do. It’s all fun and games to take sneaky pictures of a famous officer when he’s out and about, less so when crossing the invisible privacy limit means getting shot by a government sanctioned squadron. Sometimes, Brad wishes he didn’t feel so grateful for it.

 

The building is dark, except for the light in the hall, always on. The doorman greets him on his way in, cordial as ever. Brad offers a nod in return and heads to the elevator.

 

Brad’s apartment was an indulgence, offered as part of his posting. He has grown fond of it, and not only because it keeps him out of the barracks. It is stupidly spacious and luxurious, but Brad keeps it as bare as his status allows. There is a sort of spartan opulence to the space that serves as a reminder of both who he is, and the role he has to play. Brad appreciates that.

 

He tosses his jacket on the couch, takes a deep breath as he grabs his phone. Ray never seems to sleep, so there’s no risk of waking him, but Brad hopes for a fleeting second that the late hour will have toned Ray down. He dials the number, and waits.

 

“Today's call in topic: serial killers and the women who love them. Go ahead caller, you're on the air!”

 

Right.

 

“Yes, I’m calling to say that their love is not reciprocated and they should stop harassing me.”

 

There’s a moment of utter silence on the line before Ray breaks out in shrieking laughter.

 

“Oh my god, homes, if Wagner’s getting you in a joking mood, I’ll sign you up for the Wagner Appreciation Society!”

 

“Ray–”

 

“No, wait, I need to cherish this moment a bit more. Gimme a sec.”

 

Powerless, Brad can only listen as the receiver is being put down, followed by sounds of thumping, clatter, and a subdued “oh shit.” When Ray comes back on the line, he sounds breathless.

 

“Sorry, dude. Had to do a small victory dance there, I’m sure you understand.”

 

“I sure don’t, but that’s never stopped you before.”

 

“Nope,” Ray answers, popping the “p” obnoxiously. “It’s interesting to note that you identify yourself as a serial killer, though. Want to talk about it, Bradley?”

 

Brad groans. Ray cackles.

 

“So, dearest sir, what can I do for you today on this fine evening?”

 

There is some comfort to be taken in the fact that, despite all appearances to the contrary, Ray’s brain always switch back to work mode.

 

“I met someone,” Brad starts to explain.

 

Ray interrupts him before he can continue. “I’m sure he’ll like you, Bradley. Just be yourself, that’s all you can do.”

 

Or maybe Brad was being too generous in crediting Ray’s brain’s ability to focus. “How exactly did you survive this long without anybody killing you?” he asks, sounding pained.

 

“You tell me.”

 

“Ray, while I am aware that incest is an honoured family tradition of yours and that it had the unfortunate consequence of making your attention span dangerously short, I met the son of the new German ambassador and I need you to get as much intel on him as you can. Can you do that?”

 

“Anything specific you want me to look for?”

 

Ray is scribbling in the background, the sound minute yet sharp through Brad’s receiver. He thinks about the question for a second.

 

“Anything you can get your hands or ears on. I don’t know how much information you’ll have access to, the bulk of their paper trail will be in Germany, but I need to know who I’m dealing with. If we’re going to run in the same circles from now on, I can’t leave anything up to chance.”

 

Ray hums, thinking. “He say anything?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What should I expect, then? Friend or foe?”

 

“I’m calling you, aren’t I?” Brad says, trusting Ray to understand the implication.

 

“Gotcha, homes. Your pal Ray-Ray will see what he can dig out. I’ll call you when I know more.”

 

“Thanks. And make sure you’re being careful.”

 

“Same to you.”

 

_____________

 

**APRIL**

 

  

>   ** _Brad Colbert and Walt Hasser’s friendship, a Bromance without Borders!_ **
> 
> _Denise Martin, April 2nd, 1961_
> 
> Walter Hasser may only have arrived in New York three weeks ago, but his budding friendship with Hauptscharführer Brad Colbert already looks like the beginning of a beautiful bromance.
> 
> Several surprised onlookers witnessed the diplomat’s son and our favourite soldier having lunch at Keens Steakhouse near Nietzsche Park. The lunch meeting marked the second time Walter Hasser has been spotted in public, and one of only a handful of times where Brad Colbert appeared in civilian clothes in public.
> 
> The two darlings of society first met at the Ring of Niebelungen Premiere at the New York Metropolitan Opera last month, where Colbert seemed to take Hasser under his wing.
> 
> “Yes, I introduced them to each other, and they seemed to hit it right off,” socialite Hildegard Sondermeier said. “Hasser even exchanged his seat so that he could sit next to Colbert. You could see how much they enjoyed the Opera. It was clear to everybody how much they loved the music, upstanding gentlemen that they are.”
> 
> At the lunch yesterday, Colbert and Hasser picked up right where they left off, seemingly trading jokes and having a good time.
> 
> “I think it’s fair to say that they really brought the restaurant to a standstill. Everybody was watching them, surprised at how much at ease both of them were,” an employee of KEENS said. “They left a sizeable tip, too!”
> 
> Asked for a statement, neither the German embassy nor the SS would comment.
> 
> On the style front, the new friends are unparalleled: whilst Hasser was going for a laid-back look in a white shirt and dark pants, Brad Colbert decided to seize the opportunity to show off his sense of style. Profiting from not wearing his usual uniform, our favorite son was sticking to his usual colour palette, opting for a black fitted shirt.
> 
>  
> 
> We for one can’t wait to see those two out in public more often!

 

_____________

 

Part of the reason why Ray is the longest surviving member of the Resistance is that he keeps a very low profile.  While he does most of the background research himself, he realized very early on that it’s better for his life expectancy to let other people do the dirty, hands-on work for him. And so Ray has a network. Ray has connections. Ray knows people who know people _who know people_. And if nobody knows Ray, or what he looks like, all the better for his life expectancy.

 

And if that’s not enough, Ray can work magic with any radio, communication device, or kind of electrical apparatus ever created. His secret to getting eighty percent of supposedly secret information? Hijacking a frequency or a phone line that the person on the other end expects to be protected and shared on a strict need-to-know basis.

 

That, and sounding very confident when asking for things. Ray is excellent at sounding very confident. Ray has spouted the most absurd bullshit and had people nod thoughtfully over it, like he was some highbrow philosopher exposing a revolutionary concept instead of a fucked-up hick suffering from verbal incontinence.  

 

When Brad Colbert – and despite pretending to take it in stride, Ray still cannot fucking believe it. _Brad_ fucking _Colbert_ for fuck’s sake – asks Ray to find out what he can about Walt Hasser, full name Walter Heinrich Hasser, son of German Nazi Ambassador Hasser and his American wife, in that way Brad has – he tries to sound all Iceman, cool and detached and shit, but he’s actually flustered and crying inside because he’s finally found a friend he can take out in public, Ray knows – Ray decides that this is a mission he has to take on personally.

 

It doesn’t hurt that the first encounter Ray has with the guy is a picture from when he was twenty and Walt looks really fucking pretty. And, like, Ray has met Rudy, okay, and he is confident enough in his masculinity to challenge anyone to lay eyes upon Rudy Reyes and not want to drop to their knees and do some truly naughty things to him. Rudy is hot, alright, it doesn’t make you gay if you think Rudy’s hot, everyone thinks he’s hot. It’s one of those universal truths. The sky is blue, Nazis suck, Rudy Reyes is one gorgeous motherfucker.

 

Walt Hasser looks nothing at all like Rudy. Actually, if you took a description of Rudy and sought to write the exact opposite, you’d get a fairly apt description of Hasser. It turns out, though, that Ray’s masculinity is also interested in that, which leads Ray to putting on his grownup pants and wandering out into the busy streets of New York City on a bright Friday morning. Well, morning for Ray, early afternoon for the rest of the world.

 

He’s spent the last two weeks collecting any bits and scraps of information available on the Hasser family. Turns out, Brad’s interest and uncertainty about Walt was extremely warranted. Ray’d whistled more than once as he perused the findings. The Iceman’s instincts were right on money.

 

The Hassers are one of those families that avoided the radar entirely until shortly before relocating to New York.They are well-known in their social and political circle, and Ray found mentions of them in numerous articles and notes on various official events and functions throughout the decades. Which is exactly what you’d expect, but not a single article more. Apart from the spotlight of Hasser senior’s job, the family is as private as it gets.

 

Hasser senior is as apolitical as it’s possible to be in his position as an ambassador. He joined the Nazi party in 1933 when it became the only party left to join, duly made his way up the political ladder, waved hands, kissed babies, and attended any political events where his presence was required. Doing everything that was expected of him, but not a single bit more. By the time Walter was born, his father was important enough to warrant the Führer coming to the baptism. Ray laughs when he sees a picture of Baby Walt shrieking like a siren on good old Adolf’s arms.

 

Now, Mrs Hasser, née Mulligan, is another story entirely. While she met her future husband during one of those political events in 1935, she wasn’t there as the daughter of Nazi sympathiser Martin Mulligan but as a promising journalist for the Atlanta Herald.

 

Ray talks a lot of bullshit, and it’s easy to think that the inside of his head is one giant maelstrom of it, because, well, it kind of is. Ray owns it, though, his brain is his bullshit, and he knows every sordid little corner of it. So when he reads the name Atlanta Herald, one speckle of dirt flows out of the never ending swirling mess and lands right at the forefront, screaming DIG HERE in big blinking neon letters. So Ray digs. He has to dig deep, but he gets there eventually.

 

The official story is as follows : the Atlanta Herald was a pretty innocuous local newspaper that sold a few dozen thousand copies for every issue, didn’t make waves, the sales of which dropped progressively until it was discontinued in 1942.

 

The actual story is this: In 1941, the SS found out that illegal press was printed from the offices of the Atlanta Herald with the assistance of a couple of its employees. The entire staff was arrested and interrogated, two of them were executed, and the newspaper was terminated the following year. Official paperwork states that Miss Mulligan, recently turned Mrs Hasser, had not been working there anymore for close to two years at the time of the investigation and that, coming from a family of well-known supporters of the Nazi cause, she was cleared of any suspicion right away.

 

Ray Person states that this is the biggest bullshit he’s ever heard and laughs until he cries.

 

So between an Oh-yeah-sure-I’m-definitely-a-Nazi father and a totally-not-in-the-resistance mother who, somehow, managed to evade any and all suspicion, it’s no wonder that baby Hasser pinged Brad’s radar. Sure, there is no conclusive evidence of anything linking Mrs Hasser to what happened in 41, and Mr Hasser is as appropriate as a nun in an orphanage, but _come on_. Ray’s been in the business long enough to spot like-minded individuals.

 

Seriously, it’s a good thing Walter’s pretty, because anyone coming up to Hauptscharführer Colbert to voice questionable opinions would normally be shot on the spot. It all makes sense once you know Walt’s family history and know how to read between the lines. But if you don’t… Ray shakes his head. The audacity of Walt.

 

But there is something else, Ray thinks as he watches Walt browse the men’s section at Macy’s. Based on Walt’s background, Ray would have expected him to be … different. Ray hasn’t met many Nazi high-ups, but the ones he met were all, without exception, huge egos with nothing to fill their empty skulls but hate and feelings of superiority. The world belongs to them and they don’t hesitate showing it.

 

But Walt, who would have every reason to be the same and more, is not only patiently listening to the vendor making his case for one pair of trousers instead of the other, he is also smiling. And that smile does things to Ray. In order to get a grip of himself, he puts a box of underwear in Walt’s shopping car when he’s distracted. Not that Ray would think about Walt in underwear. Ever.

 

When he calls Brad to give him his informed opinion, Ray deems it safer to forego any kind of explanation.

 

“Walt Hasser,” he exclaims, “Certified unicorn, Ray-Ray approved, go for it. Just don’t let him meet Rudy, I don’t think I could handle it.”

 

“What,” says Brad’s voice.

 

Ray hangs up.

 

 _____________

 

**MAY**

 

"So, to summarize, the first raids managed to noticeably hurt the smugglers. We will follow this up with persistent and consistent raids, as well as using various interrogation techniques to get more information about the main perpetrators." Brad pauses a couple of moments, aware that everybody's attention is on him. "I have also developed a twelve step program that outlines major deliverables for the next six months. All for the Reich."

 

"All for the Reich," the room answers back.

Godfather nods and stands next to Brad. "Colbert, I want you to know how happy I am with the progress that's being made on that front." For a second, Brad has a flashback to when Godfather praised him for shooting those civilians. Before Japan. Before everything.

He nods back at Godfather, and sits down, waiting for the rest of the meeting to continue.

"Gents, as you know, we have a little pest problem." Chatter starts up around Brad. He is surprised that Godfather brings this up without being prompted. "As you might have noticed, we are looking for traitors as well. There's no way those little leeches could have done as well as they have without inside help. And let me repeat, gents: there will be no mercy for traitors. No mercy." Godfather lets the words sink in before continuing.

"The Japs confirmed the dates and itinerary for the visit next month. If you ask me, it's all a bunch of wussy hot air bullshit, but we gotta play along. For now. Schwetje, I have seen your plans and I am not impressed. You need to re-work some of that. We wouldn't want that asshole getting shot on our watch." Godfather erupts in a deep belly laugh, which takes Brad by surprise.

Brad's mind is racing. The visit is clearly important to the Reich. Perhaps that's an opening they can use. Finally, Brad's inside knowledge will come in handy. Everything he has contributed to the cause so far was fairly passive - telling them to stay away from the black market for a day or two, giving them the dates for the raids. This information, only he has access to. This is where he could prove his worth.

After Godfather dismisses them, Brad walks slowly back to his office, trying to figure out how to best take advantage of the situation without leaving him - or the rest of the group - open to repercussions. None of the information he gives Nate must be traced back to him individually. He doesn’t think there will be a problem with getting the security plan for the visit - the contingency plan has been circulated rather widely, first when Schwetje was asking for help and input, then as a joke amongst the officers themselves.

Brad is shaking his head when he remembers some of the details of the plan. He doesn’t know how Schwetje got to this post, but it wasn't by merit or intelligence, that much is clear.

 

When he steps into his office, he notices that he isn't alone. Godfather is sitting in his chair, behind his desk, and motions Brad to sit down. Brad swallows his pride at being treated like a guest in his own office. There are situations where you can show your displeasure, but being faced with Godfather is not one of them.

So he sits down and waits for Godfather to start. He racks his brain, trying to figure out why Godfather is here. Did he find out? Brad had wondered what would happen if they ever found him to be guilty of treason.

 

Would they call him out in front of everybody, making a show out of it? Making sure no sons of the Reich would ever strike again against the Reich? Or would they simply make him disappear, a rumour to be whispered in the hallways?

 

Godfather’s short cough interrupts his thoughts. “Brad, you have done the Reich proud.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Brad nods, still not entirely sure where this is going. Unaware of his inner turmoil, his commanding officer continues.

 

“You’re a warrior, Brad. I know that, I’ve known it since I first saw you, coming out of the Academy and looking like a hungry rat. You’re a warrior.”

 

Brad waits, vaguely wishing that he was still standing. Somehow, being completely impassive is easier if you are standing at parade rest.

 

Godfather leans forward. “You need a war, son. You deserve one. And trust me, you’ll get one. I’ve been working on it. Now, I know you’re a smart man. Most people don’t see it, because you’re too smart to show how much you understand of the political game. I was like you, once. Just like you.”

 

Godfather’s gaze lingers on Brad. “Kaizen’s visit is going to change things, Brad. If we play our cards right, this might be the first step to a war. Your war. And I’m sure you’ll do great things if only you had the opportunity to show off your skills. Let’s be honest, son, arresting smugglers is beneath you. But it’s peace time. I can’t tell the General that we don’t do windows.”

 

Again, he stops for a second. “But believe me when I say that this peace won’t last forever. And when the war starts, you will be able to show everybody what you are made of.”

 

Godfather looks insanely pleased with himself. Brad just hopes that his mask of impassivity is immaculate as ever.

 

“I’ll be honest with you, this visit from Kaizen isn’t just a courtesy.” He leans forward, across Brad’s desk. “You noticed the thirty minute gap in the official time table, I take it?”

 

Glad to finally be able to speak, Brad nods. “The one labelled ‘private consultation’?”

 

He had wondered about that agenda point. It could mean everything and nothing. The fact that it took place in a hotel room didn’t exactly narrow down the options. Brad’s educated guess so far was that Kaizen needed medical treatment that he couldn’t get in Japan.

 

“Exactly. Well, let me tell you something.” Godfather leans back. “Kaizen will sign a treaty that will allow collaborative military action in the Neutral Zone.”

 

Brad straightens, eyes widening. This is the last thing he expected, he isn’t sure what to make of it, but he can see how —  but surely, no —.

 

Godfather raises a placating hand, lips stretched in a smug smile. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “I was shocked too when it was brought up, but the Japanese need this treaty more than we do, and that’s our advantage. See, they can’t handle the Neutral Zone without us, but we can. And we can handle it with them in it, too.”

 

He pauses then, pale blue eyes both calculating and warm as he watches Brad put all the pieces together, full understanding dawning on him in seconds.

 

“Do we even need to remove the geographical buffer?” Brad asks, flippant, though he feels anything but. The Reich has been planning a war with Japan. The Reich is taking effective steps to launch an invasion in the weeks to come. They are dozens of steps ahead of what Brad was aware of. The implications are too terrifying to contemplate. Maybe being seated for this wasn’t such a bad idea.

 

Godfather chuckles, tilting his head approvingly. “Military speaking, no,” he answers, “but,” he waves a hand in a short, dismissive motion, “politics. Unfortunately, it seems that being ready doesn’t mean we get to rush into this. We need the cover of this entente to start our campaign. But if we play our cards right, and believe me, Brad, I will do everything in my power to make sure we do, we will be at war with Japan soon. Very soon. I got you your war, son.”

 

He’s still smiling, and Brad grins back, forcing his mouth to curve up in a sharp, satisfied smirk as he nods, and offers his hand to Godfather. He doesn’t trust his voice right now, a handshake will have to do. Godfather radiates satisfaction. He shakes Brad’s hand and claps his shoulder on his way out.

 

The words echo in Brad’s mind long after Godfather left his office. He picks up papers and walks around the room, trying to figure out how to deal with this new information. Eventually, he gives up and tells his assistant to cancel any appointments for the rest of the day. Instead, he goes for a run, heading east until he hits the Hudson River Greenway. Freed of having to navigate traffic, he sets a brisk pace and thinks.

Godfather called him son. Brad had guessed that he was a favourite of his commander, as much as Godfather had favourites amongst his officers. But this is new. This is personal. And it certainly doesn’t make his life easier. Nothing attracts the jealousy of fellow officers like favouritism. He needs to be careful now, even more careful than usual. He needs to pay special attention to hallway whispers and water fountain talk. Brad considers his options. Perhaps this is where Walt could prove useful. Walt has access to far wider circles than Brad. Brad needs to make sure he doesn’t get stabbed in the back. He has too much to lose now.

If Godfather really wants to groom Brad as his successor – as his comment seems to imply – Brad will soon have access to far more information. But it also means that if Godfather finds out about his side activities, Brad will be well and truly fucked. Brad has no illusions – being identified as a traitor would be deadly either way. But with Godfather’s aspirations placed on him? Brad doesn’t want to imagine what’s in store for him if his work with the resistance comes out. Death will be the least of his worries.

Business as usual, then, Brad things wryly. Ever since that evening in Poke’s diner, Brad knew what he was getting himself into. He has no illusions about getting out of this alive. The stakes have just been raised, is all. He wouldn’t have survived for this long if he wasn’t good at playing the game.

Instead of lingering on it, Brad thinks about the other thing Godfather mentioned. The treaty. Once again, he is hit by the realization of how little he knows. Until an hour ago, he thought this visit was purely for PR purposes. A couple of good photo opportunities, shaking hands, more photos, that’s it. But now this visit has a whole other dimension. Brad wonders what else he doesn’t know, but he knows it’s futile. He’ll never have all the information he needs, and part of his training is to act on limited information.

So he recaps what he knows. Kaizen will sign a treaty that will bring everybody closer to the brink of war. War. Brad suspects he should be delighted. Godfather was right, he was trained for this. He went through the most ruthless and harshest training on earth to become the perfect soldier. Everything the Reich has thrown at him, Brad excels at. No matter what hardship, Brad has come out on top. And all of this training is for one goal only: to prepare him for war.

Yet, Brad can’t help but suppress a shudder when he plays through the steps. As soon as the Reich is reasonably certain that they are on the eve of war, he will be shipped out. Brad is trained to operate behind enemy lines, and it’s easiest to get behind enemy lines if the lines aren’t set yet. Brad will be there even before the war itself. If he’s lucky, he will be able to get word to Nate and Mike, but chances are he won’t. There will be no goodbye for him. And almost certainly no return – Brad knows that he counts as little more than cannon fodder in the general scheme of things. He realizes that he doesn’t worry too much about his destiny. He’d rather not die, given the choice, but he has spent his life preparing and training for it.

Unlike his friends. Once war has been officially declared, everybody will be mobilized. Which means Nate will be called into service. Brad tries to imagine Nate putting on the uniform and practising drills, and his stomach falls out. Nate wouldn’t go. Nate would rather get executed for desertion. Ray would probably go underground, trying to avoid service as well. Perhaps, if he’s lucky, he’ll be able to join up with Mike. As a dead man, Mike would have no other option but to disappear. He’d be way too vulnerable in New York. The city would soon be devoid of young men. He’d stand out like a sore thumb.

Perhaps they would make it to Poke, Brad thinks. Depends how fast they act. Once the war is declared, borders will close and getting to Poke will be almost impossible. They could try and continue their smuggling business. War always means good business for smugglers. It would certainly be their best shot, but chances of discovery are high and the Reich will be merciless with war profiteers, especially with deserters. Their lives would certainly be measured in weeks. Brad has to stop to catch his breath, suddenly overwhelmed by certainty that if war breaks out all his friends will die, and there’s no way for Brad to protect them.

 

And that doesn’t even take into consideration the nuclear weapons. Brad knows sooner or later one of the parties will use them. It’s no secret that the Reich is eager to launch a nuclear missile. And if they do, Japan will retaliate in kind. Nobody would be able to recover from this, yet neither side would stop fighting before the total obliteration of the enemy. There will be no victory in this, just total destruction. Brad thinks of the week of nuclear training they did in the wasteland that used to be Washington DC. He and his team had to huddle up in ruins, hoping their protective gear wouldn’t rip.

They spent an afternoon in an office building. Nothing pointed to the fact that the city had become a battle zone. Brad remembers walking down an aisle of desks, looking at the papers on the desks, the coffee cups and family pictures. Everything seemed like the occupants had just stepped outside for a short break. He didn’t wonder what became of the people. Nobody made it out of Washington alive. Those that survived the blast were shot by the invading German army to avoid nuclear contamination.

Brad forces his thoughts back to the present. He tries to figure out what would happen if the Reich and Japan really went into a self-destructing spiral. How would the motherland in Europe react? Brad doesn’t have to think hard. Everybody knows the Reich has recovered enough from the past war and is hungry for another. And there is only one adversary left on the continent. Russia and Germany have signed peace accords in 1944, but that’s not worth the paper it’s written on. If Germany were to attack Russia - Brad shudders. There might not be a world left after this.

Come what may, he has to stop this war from happening. The treaty is the first step, which means he has to prevent Kaizen from signing it. There’s only one way, realistically. Brad stops, breathing harshly. He doesn’t know how Nate will feel about killing someone. But Brad can’t allow this treaty to go through, and if that is the only way to do it, so be it. He turns around, heading back home. He has a phone call to make.

 

 _____________

 

There is a pregnant pause after Brad’s finished speaking. It isn’t entirely surprising, despite Nate having gotten used to Brad’s bluntness. Next to him, holding the second phone, Mike lets out a deep, long sigh.

 

“Run that by us again,” Nate says flatly, sounding nowhere near as dubious as he could be given the circumstances.

 

“Kaizen will not be here for amusement but to sign a treaty that will allow the Reich and the Japanese Pacific States to militarize the Neutral Zone. My previous information regarding the visit was, as it turns out, if not incorrect, at least devastatingly incomplete,” Brad sounds pained at this admission, a sigh carrying over the line to end his sentence.

 

“But they can’t do that,” Nate says, confusion trickling into his tone. “Operating in the Neutral Zone is akin to openly declaring war.  
  
“Yes,” Brad agrees. “The problem here being that, for the Japanese, this is a first step towards greater collaboration between the empire and the Reich, and they need this. But for the Reich, it’s classic foot-in-the-door to make way for an invasion. Godfather was mightily pleased to tell me that he was arranging for my war to happen so that I can follow in his footsteps and become his successor.”  
  
Mike curses under his breath, but Nate ignores him and the hollow feeling in his stomach that he vaguely identifies as panic. This can’t happen now. They’re not ready for a war yet, it’s too soon.  
  
“What if we let them battle it out?” he says, conscious as the words come out that he doesn’t believe them. “The war will distract the Reich, and we will have plenty of options to wreak havoc from within. Japan can challenge the Reich, perhaps even defeat it.”  
  
Neither Mike nor Brad bother considering it. Nate doesn’t insist. He only needed, for a second, to be able to imagine the upcoming conflict as something less earth destroying than it would most likely shape out to be.

 

“If I may remind you, Nate,” Brad says after a beat, “there used to be a city called Washington DC. I have little reason to believe that New York would fare any better, would a war break out.”  
  
And yes, Nate knows that. This war wouldn’t just be played out somewhere distant. This would be a nuclear war. And, Nate realizes, Brad is a soldier. This would be his war. Brad would be the first to be shipped out. Before he can stop it, his mind conjures an unwelcome image of Brad bleeding out in a nameless town. It upsets him more than he would have anticipated.

 

Not yet, though. They can still stop this.  
  
“You’re sure it would come to nuclear war, Brad?” Mike’s voice sounds disbelieving. They all know that nobody wins once the first atomic bomb has been fired. They have witnessed it. The only reason they are still here is that the United States chose to surrender instead of firing a nuclear missile in retaliation. But it’s common knowledge that the Reich won’t surrender. Ever.

“Yes.”

 

Nate has wondered, at times, what Brad’s job really entails. The sugar-coated and glamorous extracts selected for magazines and newspapers throughout the country never attempted anything resembling authenticity - or even realism in some instances - but it is on occasions like this, when the certainty in Brad’s tone is so absolute that Nate is desperate to know what Brad’s days are really like, what he hears, what he sees, what he’s told. What kind of information he’s privy to, and what he has to do and say for people to give it to him without ever suspecting that it will fall into enemy’s hands. How Brad bears it, the ugliness and cruelty being offered to him, awaiting either approval or input, neither of which he can refuse giving.

 

Being his sole physical link with the resistance, Nate has gotten used to dealing with Brad face to face. He wishes then that he could see Brad, have him standing before him.  

 

  
“If Brad says they will, I believe him,” he says, instead. There really isn’t anything else to say. “I trust your judgement, Brad.”

 

Brad takes a deep, quiet breath, and doesn’t reply.  
  
“Okay, boys. So what do we have to do then?” Mike sounds resigned. When Nate looks at his friend, he can see the determination on his face. Back home, they were hoping for a chance to bring the Reich down. Now they have it, and Nate is hit by how much responsibility they have now. They cannot fail. If they do, everybody will die.

“We have to kill Kaizen,” Brad repeats, less urgent though just as firm as when he opened the conversation with these exact same words.

 

“You’re sure there’s no other way?” Mike asks.

 

“I have no doubt that there are other ways, none of which seem available to us at the moment,” Brad replies, because he knows it’s far from a good idea. “The signing of this treaty needs to be stopped. Taking out Kaizen guarantees this, if nothing else.”

 

“Assassinations aren’t really part of what we do,” Mike says slowly, not so much reluctant as considering, already calculating the risks.

 

“Yet,” Nate adds. There’s steel in his voice, the short syllable coming out hard and impossible to ignore. The pause that follows speaks less of hesitancy and more of the need to take a moment to accept the inevitable.

 

“It won’t stop the Reich, not if the decision to invade has been made and the only question left is when,” Brad amends, “but it keep the Neutral Zone neutral a while longer. It will buy us some time.” He stops, as if expecting either Nate or Mike to argue.

  
Instead, Nate finds himself agreeing. It makes sense. No Kaizen, no treaty. No treaty, no war. If they have to kill someone to save everybody, how can they hesitate? One life for everybody’s. It’s an easy trade to make, even if it’s not Nate’s life he’s bartering away here.  
  
Nate looks at Mike, who nods imperceptibly. Of course. It was Mike who told Nate that eventually, they’d have to kill. It was Mike who taught Nate how to kill. Now it’s just a question of following through.

 

“Let’s do it.”  
  
If Brad is surprised by Nate’s answer, he doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “I can do it. I can get close enough easily.”  
  
It takes a second for Nate to understand what Brad just suggested, and when he does, Mike beats him to an answer. “No Brad. That’s a suicide mission. We won’t allow you to sacrifice yourself for this.”  
  
“It’s worth it. We can’t let this happen, don’t you understand?” There’s a faint edge in Brad’s voice, just subtle enough to make out.  
  
“We understand, Brad, but you’re not dying for this. Not if we can do it any other way.”    
  
“But-”  
  
Nate interrupts him. “I won’t let you do this, Brad, that’s a no-go.” He can feel Mike’s gaze on him, but Nate doesn’t care. He won’t let Brad sacrifice himself unless there is no other option.  
  
“Nate’s right, Brad. We can do this.”

 

Mike, as usual, sounds as calm as if they were discussing the weather report, and not some assassination with potentially catastrophic results.  
  
Brad’s brief absence of reply conveys his frustration more than any words could.

 

“Unless you have a sharpshooting prodigy with the ability to disappear within a couple of minutes after a hit in your ranks whom you have failed to mention, I am your best option,” he snaps, cold and clipped, every bit the soldier reluctant to let a mission fail due to misplaced concern.

 

Mike chuckles, the sound as incongruous in person as it must be to Brad.

 

“Well,” he drawls, “if prodigy implies youth, we’re shit outta luck on that one, but we do have someone.”

 

 _____________

 

Two weeks later, Nate walks down the corridor to Brad’s office. The way to Brad's office has become familiar by now, the thought of being in the heart of the military of the Reich no longer making his heart rate spike. Today though, he can hear Brad's voice echoing down the hallway to him all the way from Brad’s office at the other end of it.

  
"....and I am astonished at your continuous existence, seeing that you are incapable of executing even the simplest orders. Frankly, it is a wonder that you manage to get dressed in the morning without someone having to supervise you. You are an insult to the training the Reich has bestowed upon you, and we would all be better off if they'd chosen to train an ape in your stead."  
  
Uncertain of what's going on, Nate knocks on the doorframe and peeks into the office. Brad is sitting at his desk, and shouting at an intern. Although, shouting isn’t the appropriate term. From anyone else it would be, whereas Brad’s tone is clipped and short and he conveys his annoyance through sharp elocution and cutting, elaborate vocabulary. Nate has never faced this kind of reprimand, but even from where he is standing he can see the intern shrinking a bit more at every word. As soon as he sees Nate, though, Brad stops his tirade. The intern’s shoulders relax slightly.  
  
"Leave, I have business to attend to," Brad waves dismissively.  
  
"Yes, certainly, Hauptscharführer." The intern all but scurries out of the room, not giving Nate another glance.  
  
"Having fun?" Nate says as he steps into the office, making sure to close the door properly behind him.  
  
"What an absolute and utter idiot," Brad sighs, walking around the desk to meet Nate halfway.  
  
"I figured it was either that or that you were talking to Ray," Nate says with a smile.  
  
"Ray, despite his many and varied faults, which include basic table manners if our last conversation is anything to go by, is among the most skilled people I’ve ever met."  
  
"I'll tell him you said that," Nate says, smiling fondly at Brad.

  
"Please don't. I like to keep him afraid of me."  
  
"Ray?” Nate snorts. “I don't think he ever was afraid of anything, much less you."  
  
Brad makes a face, but doesn’t disagree. They are both silent for a minute before Nate speaks up again. "You asked me to come see you?"  
  
"I managed to get a copy of the security plans for the state visit,” Brad nods, dropping his voice to an undertone. “But, Nate. If your guy misses his first shot, he'll not get another chance. They'll pull Kaizen out and hide him in a secure location until the signature ceremony. There's only one chance. We can't miss it."  
  
Nate fights to keep the annoyance off his face. "I know you're having a hard time trusting us, but Pappy's good. He won't miss." He puts every single ounce of faith he has into his words, hoping that Brad will understand.  
  
Brad still doesn't seem convinced. "One shot–"  
  
"Brad,” Nate interrupts him. “He doesn't miss."  
  
Brad looks at him for a long second, then nods before turning away. He flips through some papers on his desk until he finds the stack that he's looking for. Nate can't help noticing that all papers are stacked precisely, in neat heaps. No spark of dust, no personal memorabilia. Just papers, pens, and a phone.  
  
The desk isn't the only thing that's completely devoid of any personal items. The only picture he can see is one of Brad shaking the hand of the Führer. Nate remembers seeing it in the newspapers a couple years back, when Brad graduated from the Academy with flying colours.  
  
As he steps closer to see, Brad approaches him.

 

"He smelt bad."  
  
"What?" Nate says, not sure what conversation Brad is having.  
  
Brad points at the picture. "He smelt bad. Like he hadn't washed in months. I remember that."  
  
Nate can't help but smile. "You know, you could get arrested for that. Bad mouthing our dear leader? You're looking at at least three months in prison plus six months hard labour."  
  
"Good thing I’m not involved in anything more serious than criticizing our dear leader’s corporal hygiene, then," Brad whispers back, a sad half-smile on his face.

 

Not for the first time, Nate wonders what made Brad switch sides. He could ask, he realizes. There is no animosity left between them. Brad trusts him, and, despite everything, Nate has learned to trust Brad in turn. Hell, the thought has been known to spring fully formed in Nate’s mind that he even _likes_ Brad, sometimes sees their brief meetings as one of the rare events he can look forward to. Nate wants to ask, and he is certain that he would get an answer. Now’s neither the time nor the place, though.  
  
Instead, he says, "Well, not everybody can claim to have met the Big Guy, you know."  
  
Brad hums in agreement. "Who's the biggest head you've met?"  
  
Nate thinks for a moment. "Um. Friedrichs?"  
  
Brad scrunches his nose. "The Governor?"  
  
"Yeah,” Nate nods. “He came to our Hitler Youth graduation ceremony. Mike got some kind of medal for outstanding service to the Reich." Brad’s amused chuckle echoes his own. "I think that was the summer before he stepped down as Governor."  
  
"He didn't step down. He was shot for embezzling money," Brad says conversationally, looking back at the picture on the wall.  
  
"Seriously?" Nate asks, startled.

  
"Yeah."  
  
"Um, there's no good way to ask this," Nate starts, but Brad seems to know where this is going.

 

“No, I wasn't the one to shoot him, Nate. Jesus. One execution and now everybody thinks that's all I'm doing. That's incredibly insulting. I am well versed in a wide variety of things, you know."

 

This is something they’ve never discussed, not openly, not covertly, never even hinted at. The realities of Brad’s past and his work as a soldier of the Reich have always remained stubbornly unacknowledged. Nate doesn’t quite know what to make of Brad’s words now, or the flippant way he simply throws them out there. There is nothing flippant about the sudden stillness of Brad’s body beside him, though, and Nate might be curious, but he knows when to not push, so he simply blinks twice, shrugs, and plays along.

  
"True,” he says, absently, “You also terrorize innocent citizens."

 

Brad’s stillness eases a fraction.  
  
"If you think you're innocent, Nate, I really can't help you."  
  
Nate’s lips quirk up in a smile. This is something he hadn't expected, the easy sense of back and forth he and Brad were able to strike up between them. He shoots a look at Brad and finds him looking back, a small smile hiding at the corner of his lips.  
  
Brad turns away and walks back to the desk to grab a sealed envelope that he hands to Nate. "The security plan is in here. I also managed to get a blueprint of the building that I think is the best location for your guy–"  
  
"Pappy," Nate interrupts.  
  
Brad makes a face. "Yes. Pappy." He pauses for a moment. "If you want to instil faith in the man's skills, that is the wrong nickname."  
  
Nate shrugs. "We can't all be the Iceman."

 

This might be pushing it, but at the mentioning of his own nickname, Brad merely rolls his eyes before he continues. "The plans and the blueprints. That should give you enough to work on."  
  
Nate takes the envelope and gives Brad a receipt. "See you later, Brad. Take care."  
  
"You too."  
  
-  
  
Nate scrutinizes Pappy's face as the man is looking at the plan and blueprints. They are all hunched over the kitchen table in a safe house, trying to figure out how to go about this. They've been at it for hours now.  
  
Rudy points out at the map of Times Square.

 

"Your boy was right, Nate. The sightline from that building really is the best." His fingers trail across the map. "Kaizen will most likely pose here for pictures, so we should be able to get a clean shot if we're perched up here." His fingers stop at the Hotel Astor on Broadway, between West 45th and West 44th.  
  
Mike hums in agreement. "Seems like it. But how are you getting up there?"  
  
Pappy lifts his eyes off the map. "We'll camp out there a couple of days early."  
  
"Brad said they'll search the area and surrounding buildings before the visit," Nate points out.  
  
"Plus, It’s a hotel, there’s bound to be a lot of comings and goings. We could always get there the day of the visit, have a drink in the lobby, wait till they finished their final sweep and then go up. Nobody will question Pappy carrying a bag," Rudy says.  
  
Pappy shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who waltzes into high end hotels to have a drink?”

 

“I’ll clean you up, you’ll look real nice, my Pappy, don’t worry,” Rudy says with a smile.

 

"I don't like that, Rudy."  
  
"I know, Pappy, but we gotta make do with what we have," Mike says, voice even and calm.  
  
"Rudy, what's the closest safehouse you have?" Nate asks. "You'll need to disappear as soon as the shot has been fired."  
  
Rudy nods. "I got a contract for renovating a townhouse two blocks down. If we cut down this alley here, we should be able to get there in less than five minutes."  
  
"We need to walk the escape route, time it, and find alternatives," Pappy throws in. Rudy hums in agreement.

"So that's settled then?" Mike asks, looking at them individually. "This is the biggest coup so far. Let's get it done properly, gents."

 

Nate looks as his friend, and feels a wave of relief washing over him. With a few simple words, Mike managed to install a sense of calm and confidence in them.  
They are really going to do this. They will stop this war before it begins.

  
Nate and Mike walk home through a deserted New York. Empty streets are mirrored in empty storefronts. The night curfew was lifted a year ago, yet there are hardly any civilians around. Their footsteps echo in the deserted streets.

 

For the millionth time, Nate tries to imagine a reality where the war wasn't lost.  
For the millionth time, he shakes his head, stops himself before getting started. He doesn’t need that anger anymore.

 

"How's he doing?" Mike speaks up.  
  
Despite the non sequitur, there is little doubt as to who Mike means, and it surprises Nate how unsurprised he is by it, by the space Brad has come to occupy in their lives. Nate considers the question for a moment, trying to figure out both what and how he will answer. He thinks again about Brad and his awkward, probably unplanned attempt to make light of something that must haunt him instead of getting angry at Nate.

 

"Better than I would in his situation, I think," Nate replies, after the silence has stretched just a second too long.  
  
Mike chuckles, just a second too late, throws Nate a smile. "So you're warming up to him?"  
  
Again, Nate takes his time answering, reflects on his every interaction with Brad and how he’s had to relearn the man he thought he know all about. The facts are simple. Nate’s feelings not so much.

 

"He's a good guy,” he settles for. It’s an unsatisfactory answer to a question that should have been simple, but Mike doesn’t call him out on it. If anything, he seems content with Nate’s words. His smile softens.

“Nathaniel Fick singing the praises of Bradley Colbert,” he teases, not unkindly. “Who would have thought this day would ever happen.”

 

And it isn’t funny, not anymore. Perhaps it never was. Nate thinks back. How he grew up hating Brad. How so much of his formatting years revolved around this hatred. How it fueled so many of the decisions that led him where he is now, where there is no outlet for it, no one to aim it at anymore. It was easier when Brad Colbert was a public persona, and not a person. Not _this_ person.

 

“You know,” Nate starts, unsure how to continue. “In a way, he’s every bit a victim of the Reich as we are.”

 

Mike hums. They walk the rest of the way in silence.

  
_____________

 

**JUNE**

 

If he hadn’t known it would happen, Brad would have missed it. The sound of the bullet ripping through the body is drowned by the cacophony of voices, cars and commercial jingles. Nobody seems to register what just happened, and Brad would have missed it too if he hadn’t been watching very, very closely, waiting for the inevitable.

 

“Nothing in his life became him like him leaving it,” Brad murmurs as he watches Kaizen drop to the ground, graceful in a way that only lifeless bodies can.

 

It takes a second for people to understand what happened. Brad sees the realization rippling through the crowd like a wave; first the people next to the General, sprayed with blood, staring at the ground with open mouths, then the people next to them, and those next to _them_ , etc. He acts before the crowd breaks out in chaos, pushes his way through to the body, needs to make sure that they succeeded.

 

He finally gets to the centre of attention, absent-mindedly registers civilians shouting and screaming, chaos around him, but here, in the eye of the storm, it is perfectly still. People are looking at him, dazed, as if waiting for him to tell them what to do. He crouches down next to Kaizen, searches for a pulse but knows it’s in vain before he touches the body. Pappy’s shot hit Kaizen right between the eyes, dead-centre, a perfect head shot. Brad takes a second to appreciate the skill and wonders what Pappy’s story is. Civilians don’t shoot like this.

He stands and begins barking out orders. Someone has to act. Someone has to take control of this chaos. He has to make sure Pappy’s not found. Brad can feel his training kicking in. Almost automatically, he yells orders to get the rest of the Japanese delegation ushered to cars and driven back to their hotel. The next ten minutes are a blur. When the security detail takes over to evacuate the remaining crowd from the square, he hears a rasping “Colbert” at his back and turns around to Godfather walking up to the square.

He salutes crisply, waiting for Godfather to address him. Instead, his commander takes a look around and nods.

“Colbert, Godfather thinks you did a shit hot job taking command of the situation. Outstanding presence, Colbert. Outstanding.”

Brad nods.

“Where is Schwetje?” Godfather says, carefully quiet.

“Last time I saw him, sir, he was in the command vehicle. He said he was waiting for instructions.” Brad tries to keep his voice neutral. Being a soldier is about stepping up and making quick decisions. Schwetje failed completely today. Godfather seems to think the same, judging from his slow nod.

“Colbert, return to HQ with me. Summer will take over here. Not much left to be done, anyways.” Godfather starts walking away without a further glance back and Brad falls into step next to him.

 

The briefing back at headquarters the next day doesn’t go the way Brad expects it to.

 

Godfather enters the room without a word, takes center stage as he always does, but instead of getting straight to business, he stands there and does not say a word. While Brad has more stakes in what happened yesterday than the rest of the room, he is certain that his unease at this departure from protocol is not unfounded. Something’s not right. Godfather seems unbothered, content to let the silence linger. Only when everyone starts to fidget does he break form. When he does, it’s with a satisfied grin.

 

“Whoever did that,” he announces, “did us a gigantic fucking favour.” And he laughs.

 

Brad’s stomach sinks.

 

“Got rid of that son of a bitch for us, and nicely, too.” Godfather isn’t upset about the assassination. If anything, he is ecstatic. As everyone around him start discussing the precision of the shot and the skill that went with it, Brad tries to overcome his horror and get his mind working. What happened, what did they miss?

“Two things, gents.” The room returns to silence when Godfather speaks up again.

“Overall, this is a great opportunity, a great opportunity. The Japs will be outraged, but we will not let them dictate the tempo of our movement. We, not them, will be the one to start the next war. We will hit them first, and hit them hard.”

 

The officers nod, and Brad wonders if this is news to any of them. It certainly is to him.

“This might be the opening we’ve been waiting for,” Godfather continues. “If the Japs don’t get over it, and continue to be outraged pussies about it, we might have a reason to go to war soon. And that, gents, is the best thing I’ve heard all week. So whoever that sonofabitch was that shot Kaizen, the Reich owes him.”

 

“When we get him, I will personally offer him a drink,” Godfather laughs. “Before I kill him.” The room erupts in cheers. Brad thinks of Pappy – whom he has never met, doesn’t know what the man looks like, but in this moment, Brad vows to keep him safe from Godfather. He’ll do what he must.

“Because, gentlemen, let’s be clear. As convenient as it is, he killed a guest of the Reich, and it should not have happened. Those leeches get stronger every day, and Godfather knows that they have supporters everywhere. Even here.”

 

The hush that falls over the room is almost as heavy as Godfather’s sharp gaze as he looks at every single one of them, one by one.

 

This is a threat. It cannot be taken lightly.

 

Brad forces himself not to flinch when his commander’s eyes lands on him, just looks back levelly and doesn’t let any of the turmoil that’s raging within himself show. Godfather gives him a small, imperceptible nod and moves on.

“Even here,” Godfather repeats, then pauses for a moment. “We will find those traitors. And then we’ll treat them like the scum they are. They will be begging for death, but we won’t give it to them.”

 

Brad doesn’t doubt Godfather for a second. He knows what they do to resistance fighters. The human body can be maimed in an endless variety of ways, and Brad is no stranger to any of them. Traitors? The Reich will show no mercy.

 

None of this comes as a surprise for Brad. Everything Godfather says was on his mind when he went back to Poke’s diner that one night. Brad knows the danger he’s in. All that has changed is that Godfather is now on his scent. He doesn’t yet know it’s Brad he is hunting, but he won’t let this go. There’s a reason why he is the head of the secret armed forces. Brad knows he’s very good at what he does, but he also knows Godfather is better.

He takes a deep breath, glad for once that his face was trained into indifference so long ago.

 

He catches Godfather at the end of the meeting. It might not be wise, but he needs to know.

 

“Sir,” he calls out, making his way to the front as the rest of the officers file out of the room.

 

“Brad,” his commander greets him when Brad reaches him.

“What about politics?” Brad asks in a low voice. “What about needing the cover the treaty gave us?”

 

Godfather makes a face, annoyed. “Bureaucracy is not pleased with the situation. I may be getting ahead of myself, I’ll admit it, but I’m a military man, Brad. I will not let this crisis go to waste.”

 

He fixes his sharp blue eyes on Brad’s.

 

“We cannot let these shit-stained so-called resistance fighters take credit for the hit, because it means we don’t have them under control. We cannot openly take credit for it either, for obvious reasons,” and there Godfather gestures dismissively. Politics, yet again, Brad infers. “The easiest way to spin this is a rogue fanatic acting alone. Nothing anyone could do, nobody’s fault.”

 

“Now,” Godfather continues, letting his voice carry a bit more now that the room has emptied for everyone but them. “This would work on reasonable people, but we both know that the Japanese are not entirely stupid and tend to react strongly to humiliation. They won’t buy the rogue shooter, and they won’t stand for it.”

 

He grins at Brad. “They accuse us of anything? That’s our ticket to set them straight, fuck the cover.”

 

When Brad comes back to his office, his secretary is picking up papers from the ground. He slowly enters, taking in the absolute chaos in the office that he left in pristine condition this morning. The folders that were on his desk are now strewn on the ground. The contents of his drawers tossed across the desk. The couch has been overturned, so have the chairs.

The shouts of surprise and anger all along the corridor tell him his wasn’t the only office that was turned upside down. This wasn’t supposed to be a secret, then. This is a show of force. The Reich is coming after those who betray her.

He leaves his secretary to the clean-up and goes for a run instead.

When he gets to his apartment that night, something is off. It’s not something Brad can point at. The front door bears no scratches, there are no signs of anybody entering, everything is still where he left it this morning. Yet, Brad can’t shake the feeling that someone was here and went through his stuff while he was at work. His gutfeel saved his life too often for Brad to dismiss it now.

 

He takes off his jacket and his shoes, puts some music on, and proceeds to check the entire place for listening devices.

 

_____________

 

The plan was for Brad to call Mike once he got home to brief them on the reaction of the Reich. So when Nate gets the request to pick up a parcel at Brad’s home address instead, he knows something is up. It can’t have to do with Pappy – Rudy confirmed that they both made it to the safe house according to plan. Nate pedals through the city wondering why Brad wants to see him instead of talking to Mike, and hopes none of the answers that come to mind are the right one.

When Brad opens the door to his apartment, Nate is expecting pretty much anything. He still does a double take. Brad’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans. No socks, no shoes. The picture of relaxation. It would not be more shocking if he were naked. Completely blindsided, Nate manages a “Evening,” that comes out more question than greeting before Brad motions him to come in and closes the door after him.

“I was just about to make dinner. Have you eaten already?” Brad asks over his shoulder as he walks into his kitchen.

 

Not sure what else to do, Nate follows him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s only once he’s inside that he catches up on the fact that this is his first time inside Brad’s home. He takes his eyes off of Brad’s unreadable posture to look around, taking it in. It doesn’t take long to understand what Ray meant by “movie scene feel.” The place is tastefully furnished, a well-balanced mix of opulence and sobriety, and even at first glance Nate can tell you’ll find anything you could need to entertain, cook, or simply make yourself comfortable. It’s also devoid of any personal items or even any sign that someone is indeed living there right now.

“Nah, I’m good,” Nate says automatically, trying to ignore the grumbling of his stomach.

 

It has become polite to refuse offered food. Nobody has enough these days. He’s used to constantly feeling hungry. Food rations are never enough, not to start with and especially not when you share your food with your officially dead best friend. Poke’s food packages only go so far.

Brad gives him a knowing look but doesn’t press. Instead, he just shrugs and goes to his fridge. Nate decides to take it as a sign to relax.

 

“So,” he starts, carefully. “About today.”

“Pappy got him good, didn’t he?” Nate says, all boyish smile and enthusiasm.

 

Knowing the general is dead was worth having to navigate countless security checks on his way to Brad’s. They prevented the signing. They made an impact. He walks up to the counter and leans against it, watching Brad chop red peppers. He wonders when he last had vegetables that weren’t canned, and finds he can’t remember. Perhaps he should have taken Brad up on his offer.

Brad glares at him when Nate tries to steal a piece of pepper.

 

“He did. Pass him my compliments, will you. It was a perfect shot. I’m impressed.” He turns to the fridge, and Nate quickly snags a piece of tomato while Brad’s back is turned.

“Impressed? I think that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard you say about someone else. I wasn’t sure you were able to show so much humility.” He licks his fingers, trying to savour every last bit of taste.

“I cannot deny skills when they are so masterfully displayed. Don’t get used to it, though.” Brad smiles, and Nate is fascinated by how different his face looks. It only lasts a second before he schools it back into the usual mask of passive interest. It falls so quickly, Nate wonders if Brad is even aware anymore that he’s wearing it.

“I’m not the only one who was pleased with Pappy’s work.”

 

Brad’s words come out slow and  measured and Nate bites back a curse. There it is. Brad should be as happy about this as Nate is. He came up with the idea to hit Kaizen, after all. His plan was perfectly executed. But Brad also knows the Reich better than any of them. A vague sense of dread fills Nate.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, quietly, noticing absent-mindedly that Brad assembled not one, but two sandwiches.

“Godfather was really happy about the hit, too,” Brad answers, just as quiet. “Said it could push the Japanese to, if not declare war on us, then give us a reason to declare war on them.”

 

Brad pushes one of the sandwiches toward Nate, motioning him to eat. Nate obediently takes a bite. It must be delicious, he knows, fresh vegetables and everything, but he can’t taste it, all his senses dulled by Brad’s words echoing in his head.

“Godfather isn’t making any decision for now,” Brad says, his voice sounding loud in the silent kitchen. “He doesn’t have the support of the government. He told me so himself. But if the Japanese officially accuse the Reich of anything, be it the assassination itself or any kind of association with the shooter, it would be enough of a trigger.”

 

He pauses for a second, eyes downcast and brows furrowed, before lifting his head and meeting Nate’s eyes even as he swallows.

 

“If I had known they were that eager to find a reason to push the Japanese into action, I’d never had gone with this plan. I’m sorry.”

 

He averts his eyes as soon as the words are out and busies himself cleaning the kitchen, his own sandwich sitting untouched on its spotless plate.

It takes a second for Nate to realize what Brad just said, and when he does, the realization is  met with incredulity. “What? Brad, no. You couldn’t have known. You’re our best contact in the Party, and you couldn’t tell. Your intel on the treaty was good. The treaty would have meant war for sure and soon. It was a fair bet.” He leans into Brad’s space, catches his gaze and holds it, hoping to get his point across. “We did the right thing according to the information we had.”

“Yeah, well, it sure backfired,” Brad snaps, turning away.

 

Brad hangs his kitchen towel and Nate wonders if he’s aware that he folded it perfectly. The entire kitchen looks pristine again, the plate with Brad’s sandwich on it the only indication that it was ever used. It remains untouched as Brad strides to the living room. Again, Nate finds himself following.

He watches Brad take a book from the shelf and wrap it in brown packaging paper. Right. Nate came here to pick up a parcel, he can’t leave without one. Brad scribbles an address on it.

“It doesn’t matter what we thought,” Brad continues. “We did Godfather a massive favour, and he’s gonna milk this for all its worth. He will jump at the first sign of Japanese retaliation,” Brad walks up to where Nate stands, handing him the package. “I’m serious, Nate. There’s a massive pile of shit making its way downhill. Godfather’s drumming up for war, and his paranoia got even worse. My office got searched, and I’m pretty sure this place was as well.”

 

This stops Nate short.

 

“Your place was searched,” he says, emotionless. Nate is used to being stopped, searched, and questioned on a daily basis. Every citizen is. Searching of private homes, however, is quite rare. The Reich only does it when they have reasons to be suspicious. Searching a home usually comes hand in hand with an arrest. Searching _Brad’s_ home is something Nate never even envisioned.

Brad just nods, as if this invasion of his private home isn’t half as disturbing to him as it is to Nate. “I don’t have proof, but it would be the logical thing to do.”

Nate stares at him, aghast.

“It’s not the first time it’s happened. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Nate hisses, fear and anger playing across his features before he can rein them in. “You’re one of their own ! This is your private apartment. They can’t suspect you enough to invade it like this.”

Brad just crooks an eyebrow. “I work for the Reich, Nate. I swore my life to her. Whatever is deemed necessary must be carried out.” He straightens, adopts the severe posture of his status, looks Nate in the eyes and intones in his best officer voice: “All for the Reich!”

 

The way his face and shoulders fall as soon as the words are out is jarring, it makes Nate’s stomach twist, a sour taste in the back of his throat. Before he can say anything, though, Brad continues.

 

“As I said, Godfather is furious. He knows he has a mole somewhere, and he won’t stop until he finds a culprit. I think it’s best if we keep radio silence for a week.”

 

Nate passes hand over his face, bites his lip, thinks it over. No contact is the best way to make sure that they won’t get caught, even if the thought of not checking in with Brad unsettles him. Nate swallows his unease and his objections.

 

“No contact unless you’re in trouble,” he says. “If you get in trouble because of us, we need to know. That is not negotiable.” He looks at Brad, makes sure Brad understands. Because Brad might officially belong to the Reich, but the resistance takes care of its own, and he’s one of theirs now. A member of their ragtag family, small as it might be.

 

Brad smiles his best poster smile. “Nate, if something goes wrong, you’ll be able to read it in the papers. Front page, probably.” His teeth flash, and Nate hates it, hates how the artificial expression makes Brad look.

 

“No, Brad,” Nate says, steel in his voice as he takes a step closer, refusing to let Brad dismiss him. “You call if you need us. Do you understand?”

 

The smile slides right off Brad’s face. Instead, he cocks his head and looks at Nate, really looks at Nate. Nate stands his ground and stares back, unflinching. There was a time when Hauptscharführer Colbert terrified him, but this is not him, and this is not then. This is Brad, and Nate will get in his face if he has to.  

 

After a minute, Brad nods and drops his gaze. Whatever he was searching Nate’s face for, he must have found it. They both deflate, the tension in the air dissipating like candle smoke as they stand, silent and unmoving in the impersonal comfort of Brad’s tomb of an apartment.

 

Nate should leave. He got what he was called in for, both intel and alibi. He needs to go home and talk it over with Mike, call Ray, but he can’t bring himself to. Brad is there, not even an arm’s length from him, and everything, from the downturned lips to the hunched shoulders to the loose, empty hands, makes Nate want to reach out. Defeat was never meant to be worn by someone like Brad Colbert.

 

“We’re the losing side, Brad,” Nate says in the shared air between them, quiet and matter-of-fact. “Have been since the war ended. And I know this is new to you, but being with us means you’re going to try and fail more often than you’re going to win.”

 

Brad’s inhales deeply but doesn’t raise his gaze from the ground beneath their feet.

 

“We thought today would be a win, and it wasn’t, not like we hoped it would be, but this is not on you,” Nate continues, leaning in and ducking his head, trying to catch Brad’s eyes. “What you brought to this operation was the guarantee that Rudy and Pappy would be safe once it was done. Consequences are fickle things, and you said it yourself: Godfather is not making any decision yet. The Japanese aren’t stupid. There might not be any large scale consequences. We might not have won, but that doesn’t mean we failed either.”

 

Brad huffs a bitter laugh at that, body back in motion as he rolls his shoulders, shifts on his feet, and lifts his head, finally meeting Nate’s eyes. “And this is the best we can hope for,” he says wryly, “because we’re the losing side.”

 

Nate doesn’t lean back, doesn’t step back, simply follows the movement until he has to tilt his head up to look Brad in the eye. “Yeah,” he says. “Until we’re not anymore.” And it’s easy to smile as he says it, because there isn’t a single cell in his body that doesn’t believe it, that doesn’t greet each new day with the certainty that the regime will fall, and when it does Nate will be there to see it.

 

He wants Brad to have this certainty. He wants Brad to be there and see it, too.

 

Brad doesn’t avert his eyes this time, and while they haven’t moved and nothing has changed, the apartment doesn’t feel as cold anymore. Through the window, the last light of the setting sun glints off the crystal chandelier like sunlight on the ocean, and Brad Colbert becomes Brad again, golden hair and sharp blue eyes and this odd, unexpected softness.

Nate’s chest rises and falls as he breathes and doesn’t look away.

 

Brad swallows. “You should go,” he says, and takes a step back.

 

Nate’s smile holds. He nods. Gets his limbs moving again. His fingers tighten around the book Brad gave him. “What about the book? Should I bring it back?” he asks, putting the wrapped item in his messenger bag.

“Keep it,” Brad says, too quickly. Nate wonders if Brad understands how much some books go for these days.

Brad misunderstands his silence. He clears his throat. “It’s not banned or anything. I don’t keep forbidden books.”

 

That means you read them, though, Nate thinks, and has to remind himself that he needs to leave. At the door, he turns around, one hand on the handle.

 

“Thanks for the sandwich.”

Brad’s lips quirk up, a small, awkward thing. “Anytime. Take care, Nate.”

Nate swallows the many things he wants to say.

 

“You too, Brad.”

-

 

In the privacy of his room, after having brief Mike, Nate unwraps the parcel and can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him upon reading the title. Catch-22. He’s heard about this book, everybody’s heard about this book, but few have ever succeeded in getting their hands on a copy. There was only one print run before the Party decided it was unsuitable for the greater population. Technically not banned, it quickly became a coveted status object. Of course Brad would have a copy, and of course he would give it away.

 

Nate gently opens it and starts to read.

 

_____________

 

**JULY**

 

Growing up in the system, Brad had thought he knew how paranoid the Reich could be. Every empire ends, most of them crumbling from within. That’s why the Reich made every effort to weed out traitors constantly. Interrogations, torture, keeping the press under control.  
  
Brad knows all about the different tools in the box, and yet the intensity of Godfather’s witch-hunt in the following weeks still takes him by surprise. Letters are opened before they are delivered. One of the interns doesn’t show up to work one day, and the next, and Brad doesn’t bother to inquire what happened. Lunch conversations are now whispered. One day, when he comes home, he finds a muddy footprint in his living room. More than anything, the sloppy execution of the inquiries offends him. Godfather doesn’t even hide what he’s doing. At least he’s doing it to everybody, which means he hasn’t narrowed it down yet.  
  
And even though he knows going radio silence with Nate was the right thing to do, being cut off from them doesn’t feel right. Brad never thought he’d come to miss Ray’s whimsical 4am phone calls, but he now feels himself almost tempted to check in on him. Almost.  He hasn’t had any calls since they agreed on stopping all communications. Brad assumes that means all is well – he cannot help but think that Ray would have called if someone had gone missing – but still.  
  
  
“Colbert!” Brad turns around to see Steinmeier run down the hallway after him. Brad stops and waits for him to catch up.  
  
“Thanks.” Steinmeier pauses, not quite sure how to go on. Brad stares.  
  
“Um, your presence is wanted in the interrogation room.” Steinmeier says, failing to hide a  wince.  
  
“The interrogation room?” Brad repeats, ignoring the bad feeling in his stomach.

  
“The third one, they’re interrogating all of us, one by one. Sorry. Couldn’t tell you until my session was over.”  
  
Brad nods and turns around, starting to walk towards the stairway. The interrogation rooms are in the basement. They always are.  
  
“How did it go?” Brad asks Steinmeier, forcing him to come with Brad.  
  
“Um, not too bad. He was mostly interested in my dad.”  
  
“Your dad?”  
  
“Antiques dealer, so you know. Lots of contacts everywhere.” Steinmeier looks almost apologetic, and Brad can imagine what kind of questions that line of business entails. Having a family member doing trade always raises questions, now probably more than ever.  
  
When they reach the staircase, Steinmeier stops. “I probably shouldn’t come any further.”  
  
“You probably shouldn’t, no.” Brad watches him leave, waits until he’s out of sight to make his way downstairs and tries to figure out what lies in store for him.  
  
The door to the interrogation room number three is shut. It’s a bland grey thing made of reinforced metal that doesn’t look intimidating so much as depressingly boring. Brad used to appreciate the lack of artifice and theatrics, back when he still thought some aspects of his life escaped theatrics.

Brad glares briefly at the harsh artificial light overhead and knocks. It makes a dull _thunk_ sound. He waits a second before opening the door unprompted, feeling his training kick in as he does so – keep calm, don’t give them any opening by showing fear.  
  
Waiting in the room is a guy in a black uniform who gets up when Brad enters. Average height, average weight, average face. Brad has never seen him in his life and his uniform is devoid of any rank insignia. Before Brad can say anything, the guy’s face breaks into a genial smile.  
  
“There he is, the golden child of the Reich!” he exclaims, in much the same way Herr Schmidt had taken to in his last years of officially mentoring Brad, delighted and not a little proud. Brad is not fooled like he was then, though.  
  
Instead of acknowledging the words, Brad nods his own greeting and sits down, facing the interrogator.  
  
If the interrogator expected a different reaction, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he follows Brad’s example and sits down before pulling a file across the table. All Brad can see is his name and some code scribbled across the folder. It might mean nothing.  
  
Brad thinks about what to do. He could start firing questions, steer the conversation in the direction he wants. Or he could wait and see what this is all about. After a moment’s consideration, he decides to wait. Let them come for him. He is Hauptscharführer Colbert and he has nothing to fear.  
  
The silence in the room stretches out and settles heavily. Eventually, his adversary drops the smile and speaks up.

“Thank you for coming downstairs, Hauptscharführer Colbert.”  
  
“Please, call me Brad,” Brad says.  
  
“Very well, Brad. Now, let’s see what we have here.” The interrogator opens the file, and Brad catches sight of his CV and some pictures. He isn’t always alone in the pictures, but none of them show Nate. He breathes out slowly, doesn’t let himself relax.  
  
“Brad, can you give me an idea of what your current command entails?”  
  
“Oberführer Ferrando tasked me with the detection of and fight against black market activities in the greater New York Area. I have conducted several raids, whose mission reports I can make available to you.”  
  
“That won’t be necessary, thank you very much.” Smiling amiably, the interrogator lifts several sheets of paper, and Brad can see they are his mission reports. Some of them are top secret – which means that the interrogator has access to everything he wants to have access to. Which means Brad needs to tell him everything, otherwise he’ll be accused of holding back information. Very well. It’s been a while since he was challenged like this – probably not since his first meeting with Poke.  
  
So he leans forward and continues. “Then you know that I have also submitted a detailed action plan, outlining my upcoming actions. I can elaborate on those if you want –“  
  
“No, that won’t be necessary,” the interrogator interrupts. “I’m more interested in the … operational details, you see.” The interrogator looks at him, unblinking.  
  
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific,” Brad replies.  
  
“Of course. Say, for example – how do you know who to target? How do you decide when to strike and in what location?”  
  
“There are several well-known areas of operation for black market activities, the port being the most prominent of them. I decided to start right there. The logic was that if we manage to hit the operational centre of those activities, it will cause a ripple-effect. The smugglers will either get the message and cease their illegal activities, or be forced into more dangerous activities, or open locations, enabling us to catch them more easily on the following raids. I do allow myself to think that this scenario has indeed materialized, judging by the number of arrests and confiscated materials.” He leans back in his chair, making sure his body language is relaxed and open.  
  
The interrogator nods. “Indeed, Godfather himself has told me that your actions have led to considerable successes.” He pauses, waiting to see if Brad reacts to the praise in any way.  
  
“It is always good to see your work is appreciated,” Brad nods, offering a bland smile.  
  
The interrogator hums and digs through the folder. Brad can now see the action plan, annotated with red marks. He holds back a sneer.  
  
“Don’t you think it’s remarkable how well that black market raid played out?” the interrogator asks, looking back up at Brad, eyes wide and innocent as a newborn babe’s.  
  
“I wasn’t aware being efficient had become suspicious,” Brad deadpans. His heart is beating fast, yet he feels entirely calm. Interrogations give people warning. If Godfather was sure of anything, he wouldn’t bother. Despite the very real risk of being discovered, this is textbook, no real threat unless Brad fucks up, and fucks up very badly. He tilts his chin up, looks down at the interrogator and lets his usual barely concealed sense of superiority color his tone. “I know exactly what my job is and I take pride in doing it well.”  
  
“Perhaps a bit too well?” the interrogator pushes, his smile polite and impeccable.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well, there have been certain…” the interrogator pauses for an exaggeratedly long time, “rumours, you see.”  
  
“Rumours,” Brad repeats flatly. Brad, in spite of everything, is not a violent person by nature, but this entire situation is a waste of a good slap.  
  
“Yes. Your good fortune hasn’t gone unnoticed. There are certain voices that declare it is almost uncanny how lucky you have been in the past few months, or, indeed, your entire life.” Still he smiles, and still Brad wants to slap him.  
  
Instead, he leans forward, and it’s easy to sound genuinely irritated when he replies : “I have worked very hard to be where I am right now, and I would like to think that my success is thanks to my skills, not my luck.”  
  
The interrogator nods. “You certainly are a very skilled asset, Brad. Best schools and training that the Reich had to offer.”  
  
“And for that I am very grateful.”  
  
“Of course, of course.” There’s a pause. “Why would you say those rumours persist, then?”  
  
“I would say that it is due to a combination of jealousy, envy and the undeniable fact that sitting around and doing nothing is a cesspool for disrespect and disobedience.”  
  
The interrogator tilts his head and hums. “I would probably agree with you.” He doesn’t say anything else, and Brad knows they don’t have anything on him. If they had, the interrogator would have brought it up by now.  
  
So he forces his voice to come out almost bored when he answers. “Are we done here? I have a lunch meeting.”  
  
The interrogator looks at him for a long second, then nods. “Of course, you are a very busy man. Thank you for your time, Hauptscharführer.”  
  
Brad gets up and shakes the guy’s hand. “My pleasure.” He turns around crisply and walks out of the room at an even pace.  
  
Once he’s back in his office, he suppresses the urge to pick up the phone and schedule a delivery. He wants to see Nate, make sure he’s okay. Tell him he’s okay. That he’s going to live for another day. It’s an irrational urge that he cannot justify even to himself, so he smothers it before it makes it out of his head. Instead, he goes to meet Walt for lunch at the German embassy. It wasn’t a lie, he does have a lunch meeting.

Walt is already waiting for him in the embassy’s restaurant when Brad walks in, and smiles when he sees him.  
  
“Thanks for meeting me here, Brad. My parents weren’t too happy about those gossip articles, so I’m kinda grounded right now.” He sounds apologetic, but Brad waves him off.

“No worries, Walt. This isn’t half bad.” He looks around – he’s never actually been inside the Krupp Building. It’s has been a landmark of New York since before the war – and Brad has found himself admiring the Art Deco spire from the balcony of his apartment. But he’s never been inside – for security reasons, the access is heavily restricted to people who have business to conduct.

The inside of the building is as beautiful as the outside, especially in the restaurant on the upper floor. The huge windows overlook the city, bathing the dining room in sunlight.

Brad looks back at Walt and smiles, trying to put the interrogation behind him. He made it. He survived another round.

Walt is messing with the carefully folded napkin on the plate. He hesitates before speaking. “So. It seems like your job is going well so far.” He is still not looking at Brad, instead he focuses his gaze on the napkin, carefully unfolding it and playing with a corner of the fabric. Like at their first meeting in the Opera, Brad is struck by how little Walt tries to hide his feelings.

“I guess so,” Brad says, carefully. He knew what game he had to play during the interrogation, but this is different. Here, he’s not sure what the rules are.

Walt directs his gaze from the napkin to Brad. “My dad said he heard so as well. So I guess I should congratulate you on your good luck.” He puts a strange emphasis on the last word, and it takes a second for Brad to understand.

“I guess so,” Brad repeats, not sure what else to say. He has batted off the interrogation as one part of Godfather’s plan to root out the traitor. Everybody was questioned, and Brad is as convinced as he can that he didn’t raise any suspicions. But if those rumours got all the way to the German ambassador – whose son is known to be friends with him -  they are more persistent than he originally thought.

Brad cannot allow this rumours to continue. They will only grow and fester. And eventually, they will reach Godfather. And no matter how much good will Godfather has towards Brad – at that point, Brad’s reputation will be too damaged to save him. Brad needs to stop these rumours before they reach Godfather. He won’t be much use to the cause if he’s dead or sent on some dead-end mission somewhere in the middle of nowhere. The only question is how to stop the rumours. How to show his undying allegiance to the Reich when the truth is so dramatically different.

His racing thoughts are interrupted by a polite cough. Brad blinks to focus and sees Walt and a waiter looking at him expectedly.

“I’ll have the fish,” Brad says, decently certain he’s seen sea bass on the menu. There’s always sea bass on the menu.

“Me too,” Walt says without missing a beat, closing the menu and handing it to the waiter.

“Excellent choice, gentlemen,” the waiter says, and disappears without a further word.

Walt smiles. “You know there’s no fish on the menu? We just threw the kitchen into a fit.” He must have seen the shock on Brad’s face. “Don’t worry. They’ll figure it out.”

Brad allows himself to take a deep breath. He must have been really out of it for slipping up like that. “I must have been distracted,” he says, carefully. He’s still not sure how much he can trust Walt, but he owes him for mentioning the rumours to him. If it weren’t for Walt, Brad would have greatly underestimated the situation. Again.

He isn’t used to feeling like this – constantly being three steps behind and sluggish at catching up. Brad wonders if that’s what he gets for putting his toes in the political waters of the Reich. Before Japan, he never bothered to play the game – he had been willing to shake hands, take pictures, and be interviewed, but he never played. Now he has to, and Brad feels himself dangerously lagging behind.

“I guess you were,” Walt says. “Just be careful,” he says it light-heartedly, and yet Brad knows he means it anything but. Brad doesn’t know how Walt came to be this way – how someone raised in the very Elite could be so honestly good. He gives the kid a smile.

“I’ll be fine. Unlike the guys in the kitchen,” he adds after a pause. “There’s a kitchen boy on his way to the market right now, isn’t there?”

Walt laughs. “Probably, yes. Well, it’s not like they could say ‘no’ to Hauptscharführer Colbert and the son of the ambassador, right?” Brad detects the same edge of bitterness in Walt’s voice he noticed at the opera, and wonders whether that’s the question to his answer.

“Poor guy.” There’s nothing to be done about it, he just has to hope that the kitchen boy manages to find some fish.

“What’s the most pointless order you’ve ever been given?” The subject change is abrupt but Walt sounds genuinely interested, tone switching to full enthusiasm, so Brad plays along and tries to find a story that is actually funny.

“I had one CO at the Order Castle. He hated my guts. I didn’t take it personally, he hated everybody.” Walt snorts, and Brad smiles briefly. “He had this car – a 1937 Jaguar SS100 roadster. Pale blue, brown leather seats. Nice ride. He loved it. Got it polished every weekend, talked to it, the whole song and dance. Students weren’t even allowed to look at it.”

The waiter arrives and brings a basket of bread. Brad watches him closely, but there’s no trace of nervousness on his face when he says, “The chef has allowed himself to prepare some hors d’oeuvres as a greeting.” With that, a second waiter shows up, both hands full with small sample plates. They put the food on the table and leave, prompting Walt to laugh.

“I guess they really want us to not notice how long it’s taking for the main to arrive.” With that, he takes a bread roll and starts putting butter on it. “So what happened to the car?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Walt repeats, disbelieving.

“Yes. Because I had to guard it,” Brad says. After a second of stunned silence, Walt bursts out laughing. Through Walt’s laughter, Brad continues. “I, the best student of the Order Castle with a position in the SS already secured, had to pull night shifts to preserve the physical integrity of my superior’s personal vehicle.” He huffs a laugh. “It was the middle of winter, freezing cold, and this cretinous turd, this waste of sperm of a human being who spent more time polishing his goddamned car than his own dick didn’t even have a garage to park it in at night.” He doesn’t say that it was snowing, or he had just returned from a gruelling training march through the mountains, or that he got pneumonia off it.

“You had to guard a car,” Walt says, wheezing.

“I had to guard a car,” Brad sighs. “You did military service too, right?”

Walt’s smile disappears, and Brad almost wishes he could take the question back, but Walt answers before he can say anything.

“Yes, sir. Barely lasted through basic service, though, so technically, you outrank me and I should salute you.”

“Please don’t,” Brad says, pained. What would the rumors of his so called good fortune turn into if photos of Walt saluting him started circulating, he doesn’t want to imagine.

“I won’t.” Walt smiles again. “I don’t have any really bad stories, though. Just plain basic service. I was in an out in two years.” He doesn’t sound too sad about it.

"Your father didn't want you to stay in the military?" Brad asks, tucking into the hors d’oeuvre by dunking a piece of bread in the sauce. It's good, just spicy enough. "It would have made sense for him to encourage his son to join the National Army."  
  
Brad wonders how far he can push Walt, when he'll cross a line. When he looks at him, Walt smiles back pleasantly.  
  
"My father always allowed me to make my own choices." Walt takes a piece of salmon and puts it on his plate. "However, I do think that in this case, my choice was his as well."  
  
Brad just nods, trying to suppress the thought that he never had a father that wanted to keep him out of the military. On the contrary. Brad remembers accolades of praise when he brought back the invitation to train with the SS to Mr Smith.  
  
Something must have shown in his face, because Walt continues with a start. "I didn't mean to imply that a career in the army is not a commendable choice."  
  
Brad waves him off. "It's fine." He takes another bite before continuing. "I know military life isn't for everybody." And I'd rather you not be in it, he thinks without saying it.  
  
Walt just shrugs. "Again, it wasn't too bad. They put me in the special division, so, you know." He chews on his lip, scratch his cheek. "They didn't want to beat up the son of the up and coming politician." He stares down at his plate. "Guess they didn't extend the same courtesy to you."  
  
Brad cannot help but laugh. He thinks back on being beaten within an inch of his life for failing to execute orders. On the brutal martial art lessons. On field trips where killing his teammates was part of the training schedule. On days and nights spent outside, in rain, in snow, in blazing heat. Brad thinks about all of this and knows that he is nothing but a blade, forged out of violence and blood.  
  
"I guess they didn't, no," he says, finally, looking at Walt. Walt looks back at Brad and nods, not apologising for things outside his responsibility, and suddenly, instinctively, Brad trusts him. He nods back,and when Walt holds his gaze a moment longer than necessary, Brad knows they understand each other.  
  
"Gentleman, the main course." Their waiter appears, expertly carrying two plates that he puts down on the table with all the grace of a ballet dancer.

Brad looks down - sea bass, cooked to perfection, with a side of artistically arranged sautéed vegetables and rice.  
  
"Guess they really couldn't say no to the ambassador's son," Walt remarks once their waiter has disappeared.

  
Brad raises an eyebrow. "Don't fool yourself, little grasshopper," he says, digging in. "This is all for me."  
  
"Oh yes, pride of the Reich, I forgot," Walt says, dry smile hanging from his lips.  
**  
**

 _____________

 

"I see you made some influential friends, Colbert," Godfather says, walking into Brad's office.  
  
Brad motions at his intern to leave, and sees with satisfaction that the young man scurries away, almost falling over his feet in a hurry to get out of the room. I trained this one well, Brad thinks.  
  
"Friends with the ambassador's son. Wise, Brad." Without asking, Godfather sits down in Brad's seat.  
  
Brad has the choice between standing awkwardly or sitting in the guest seat in his own office, and finds himself slightly annoyed by Godfather's antics. The constant power plays grate on him – as if the rank insignia on their uniforms wouldn't distinguish clearly who's in charge here.  
  
Brad decides to sit down. No telling how long Godfather will stay here, and he wouldn't put it past his boss to extend his stay just to see Brad struggling at parade rest.  
  
"I do find him quite entertaining, yes," Brad finally says when he realizes that Godfather does, indeed, expect an answer.  
  
Godfather nods and folds his arms in front of him. "Wise choice. It's always good to have connections."  
  
Brad just nods and doesn't say anything.  
  
"So how did the interrogation go?"  
  
The question throws Brad off. Godfather presumably has access to all the protocols, so he knows how it went. He wants to know how Brad think it went.  
  
Brad pauses for a moment to choose his words, hoping that Godfather won't identify the pause for the hesitation it is. "Very well. I think I made my opinion clear, and we had a fruitful exchange."  
  
"Bullshit." Godfather says, without even waiting until Brad is finished. "That's bullshit, Colbert. How did it go?" He says, louder than the last time.  
  
Brad's heart is racing. Just because the interrogator doesn't know of Nate doesn't mean Brad's safe. Perhaps he said something, perhaps he did something that brought Godfather on his trail. He focuses on keeping his breathing even, his body language open.  
  
"Permission to speak frankly, sir?" He says, leaning forward in his seat.  
  
Godfather nods. "Of fucking course, Colbert. If I wanted to hear lies and half truths, I'd go see my wife."  
  
"It was a fucking nuisance and honestly plain undignified. I do my job and I do it well, and the fact that I was interrogated like some kind of traitor was not what I expected." Brad hopes he didn't just poke the sleeping beast. His move was calculated - to a certain degree, Godfather appreciates bravado, but Brad can't tell if he toed the line or crossed it.  
  
Instead of replying, Godfather leans back in his seat and crosses his arms in front of him. "Undignified." He repeats. "You thought this was undignified." He tilts his head, his blue eyes staring at Brad. "Then, how, pray tell, Hauptscharführer, would you approach this?" he says, quietly. "How would you do it better than I am?"  
  
All of a sudden, Brad is viscerally aware that he crossed the line. He criticised Godfather. To his face. He quickly reviews his options. Back down, show his underbelly and hope Godfather doesn't rip him to pieces just for the fun of it. Or double down.  
  
He doesn't let himself hesitate and instead stands how, looking down at Godfather now. "Well, I presume you already looked at the financial records."  
  
Brad never gave Nate or Mike money.  
  
"Done." Godfather says, not getting up. "Found a bunch of embezzlers, but what else is new in this shithole." He snorts.  
  
"Surveillance of the private quarters?" They won't find a private courier suspicious.  
  
"Done, and nothing besides a couple of whores and side pieces, which makes for great blackmail material, but not much more." Godfather sounds bored and Brad suddenly realizes that Godfather isn't angry at him. He is angry at the situation. He really doesn't know where his mole is.  
  
"What about the information that was passed on? Can we trace it back?" None of the things Brad gave Nate was ever passed to Brad exclusively.  
  
Godfather shakes his head. "No luck. That son of a bitch is being very thorough." He sounds reluctantly respectful of it.  
  
"So what do we know?" Brad says, turning back to Godfather.  
  
Godfather takes a deep breath. "There's a fucking bastard in my group that passes confidential information to the fucking terrorists. Makes me look like a fucking idiot in front of my superiors." He gets up too and walks to Brad.  
  
"Brad, Let me tell you this. We'll find him. And then he'll pay. And then we'll get his little friends to join the fun."  
  
Brad has to swallow a sudden wave of nausea that hits him. He cannot let that happen. He's okay with dying, if only because that was a plausible outcome ever since he joined the military. But his mind revolts against the image of Nate and Mike in a holding cell, being tortured to death.  
  
Godfather doesn't seem to notice the inner upheaval. Instead, he claps Brad on his shoulder.  
  
"Good talk, Brad." He walks out without looking back, and Brad is left in his office, alone, nauseous, and wondering when the fuck he became someone Ferrando comes to when he needs to vent, of all things.  
  
I'll be dead if those rumours ever reach him, Brad suddenly realizes. It doesn't matter if the rumours are wrong - and they are not. What matters is that they would give Godfather a goal, a lead, a lighting rod for all this frustration.  
  
He needs to stop those rumours. He needs to stop them before they reach Godfather and get him killed.

 

He thinks about it for the next two weeks. Tries to find a way to not only clear his name, but make himself so untouchable that any criticism about him would dishonour not him, but the person muttering it. How to convince Godfather once and for all that Brad Colbert is his man.

 

Brad thinks, and plots. And when he finally finds an answer, he calls up Mike and Nate, oddly uncertain of how his idea will be received.

 

_____________

 

**AUGUST**

 

“You have to kill me.”

“What,” Nate’s clipped tone comes through loud and clear.

“What the fuck, Brad,” says Mike.

“Let me correct this. The resistance needs to organise an assassination attempt on my person that, while very well planned and put-together and credible, would, ideally, fail.”

Brad is only moderately surprised by the silence that follows.

“What brought this on?” Mike asks after a minute, although by his tone Brad suspects he already has an inkling.

“Recent subversive acquaintances of mine have informed me that my esteemed presence might not be as profitable as it once was. My continuous good fortune in these times of duress is starting to raise a few eyebrows, some of them belonging to people high enough on the food chain that their discontent might be taken seriously sooner rather than later.”

“Fuck,” Nate hisses.

“Hasser?” Mike.

“Yeah,” Brad sighs. “His father is pretty good at picking up gossip, and apparently my name has been brought up a few times too many to be as easily dismissed as it usually would.”

“Has anyone approached you about this? Even covertly?” Nate asks.

“No, but it doesn’t mean much. I haven’t noticed any change in attitude either, so I’m guessing the general suspicion hasn’t reached Godfather yet. No way to know how long before it does and by that time, it will be too late.”

“So what do you have in mind?” Mike asks, calm and measured, and Brad has never liked and admired him more than he does then.

“I don’t care, as long as it gets those rumours to die before they reach Godfather. I won't be of any use to you if they do.”

Mike hums in agreement before he gets interrupted by Nate. “Sorry, excuse me, can we go back to the part where you want us to shoot you?”

“Yes. Shooting would be preferable, especially with Pappy’s skill. If it cannot be arranged, we have to think of something else.”

Something in Nate snaps. “Brad. That is not the point. We shoot you, fine. What if something goes wrong?”

“Well, if something goes wrong, my name will definitely be cleared of any and all suspicions,” Brad replies, just flippant enough for Nate to grit his teeth instead of snapping at him again.

Brad is taking this seriously, he has thought about it. Besides, loath as Nate is to admit it, if rumours about him have started circulating, there is only one way to put a definite end to them and this is it. He heaves a short, frustrated sigh.

“Did you have a timeframe in mind?” he asks, shoving all personal concerns to the back of his mind. He’ll deal with them later.

“The sooner the better,” Brad says, “although I understand that it will require a certain amount of planning. I trust your tactical abilities.”

That seems to catch Mike’s attention. “You don’t want to know what we’ll come up with?”

“The less I know the better.”

“We can’t leave you entirely unprepared, Brad,” Mike insists.

“You can, and you will. Credibility is our objective.”

“I don’t like it,” Mike says, but by his tone Nate knows that despite his own misgivings he sees Brad’s point and the sense in it.

Brad remains oddly silent at that, the way he always does when Mike, or anyone else, Nate noticed, candidly expresses concern for him. It makes something in Nate’s gut twist every time.

“We’ll keep this as low-key as we can, work on a strict need-to-know basis with as small a team as we can,” Mike continues, resigned.

“Poke will want to know,” Nate says.

“There is no reason for him to be involved,” Brad says, perplexed.

“He asks us about you,” Mike sighs. “This might surprise you, but Poke is very invested in your well-being. If he finds out from the newspaper that the resistance tried to assassinate you, we’ll have a shitstorm on our hands. Better to tell him the hows and whys beforehand, trust me.”

Brad grunts, noncommittal. It sounds strangely embarrassed.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Nate asks.

Brad doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“I’ll get in touch with Pappy,” Mike says.

“Thanks, Mike,” Brad says, and Nate could slap him for the gratefulness in his voice. Instead, he says a clipped “See you, Brad.”

He tries not to be disappointed when all he gets in return is a polite, yet distant “Stay safe, Nate.”

When Nate puts down the phone, he can feel Mike’s gaze on him. For a second, he refuses to meet his friend’s eyes, before he forces himself to look up.

“Must be a fucking dream come true for you, Nate,” Mike says laconically, watching Nate.  “I mean, you always said you wanted to kill Colbert.”

Nate snorts, but the sound is brief and harsh, as unexpected as the sour twist of Nate’s mouth and the furrow between his brows.

Mike isn’t stupid, and he isn’t blind. He knows that, despite the extremely rocky start, Nate and Colbert have come to an understanding of sorts and that Nate has developed a grudging respect for the man. If he were particularly bold, he would go as far as to say that Brad and Nate get along better than anyone with a lick of sense would have expected. Mike isn’t pleased with the plan either, but joking about killing Colbert is old habit by now, something that never failed to get Nate to crack a grin. Until now.

“Nate?”

Nate sighs and shakes his head, lower lip sucked into his mouth.

“He’s too valuable for us, Mike. We can’t lose him,” he says.

Ah, Mike thinks. Looks like the boys are already past grudging respect. He could have seen it coming. Being a spy’s sole physical liaison is bound to create an attachment, and Colbert might be an arrogant asshole, he’s also noble and just as determined as Nate.

Mike gives Nate a pointed look, question unasked but hanging thick between them. Nate remains quiet.

“When we started this thing, we agreed that our lives was a fair price to pay,” Mike says carefully. “And Colbert knows that better than any of us, Nate. His stakes are higher than any of ours. He knows what he’s asking of us, and if he says that’s the only way to save him, I believe him.”

“I believe him, too!” Nate snaps, louder than either of them expected. The resulting silence is deafening. “I do, Mike,” he whispers, “but there has to be another way.”

“Where is this coming from?” Mike asks, frowning, surprised but not. He has known Nate a long time. Long enough to learn that Nate’s passion for their cause has often blinded him to his own personal inclinations.

“I don’t know,” Nate replies. If anything, he sounds even more frustrated after the admission. “I mean,” he starts and stops. “What if it goes wrong?”

“You already posed that question, and we already agreed that  it was a risk Brad was willing to take,” Mike answers patiently. “What are you really saying?”

Nate remains quiet for a minute, chews on his lower lip, brows still furrowed. Lost in thought, rather than angry. Mike waits him out. He might have an idea of where this is going, but it is Nate’s business and Mike won’t rush him, not for this.

“I can’t imagine this world without Colbert in it,” Nate says eventually. It is so simply said, so straightforward, that it could be taken in a million of different ways.

“Well then, go see him,” Mike says, because nothing else would help. “You two battle it out and let me know what you come up with.”

He watches Nate leave, off to Brad’s apartment, and reminds himself that there are some things he cannot protect Nate from.

**_____________**

 

“It’s a fucking stupid plan, Brad. No, scratch that. It’s not even a plan, it’s a moronic _idea_ that will at best get in you in the hospital for an unknown amount of time, at worst kill you, either of those results being the sum of so many variables that there is no way to know which way it’ll go.”

Brad hasn’t moved since Nate barged in and started his little tirade. He stares, frozen mid-step, book in hand, until Nate is done.

“What are you doing here, Nathaniel?” he says eventually.

“Your office called us, apologising for requiring our services so late in the evening, but could we please send a courier to Hauptscharfürer Colbert’s residence, he needs to send important documents as soon as possible, thank you,” Nate says without pausing once, striding further into the room until he and Brad are almost toe to toe.

“One of these days, someone is going to figure out that Ray could not possibly be my subordinate, nor work anywhere connected to the Schutzstaffel.” Brad shakes his head in feign dismay.

The truth is, Nate’s sudden and unannounced appearance in his home, his very private apartment, did not provoke any alarm or surprise in him. It unsettles him more than Ray impersonating his secretary.

“Cut the bullshit, Brad,” Nate snaps, taking full advantage of their privacy to let his voice carry his anger.

“It isn’t a stupid plan, and you know it as well as I do,” Brad replies, in motion again, his long legs carrying him away from Nate and to the wall to wall bookshelves. “It is nowhere near as thoroughly planned as we are both used to, evidently, but circumstances being as they are, we do what we must.”

“And you must do this?” Nate presses.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We cannot allow the rumors to spread.”

“I mean why are you doing any of it? Helping us? Joining us? People who have been serving the Party as long as you have don’t suddenly have a change of heart. Even if they do, they don’t act on it.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Don’t,” Nate shakes his head, annoyed. “How did you convince Poke?”

Brad’s entire attention snaps back to Nate at the question, jaw set and eyes cold. “I didn’t lie to him if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not,” Nate replies, helpless, because it’s true. If, before, the idea of someone being able to gain Poke’s trust with lies was laughable, Nate realises now that _Brad_ lying seems just as incongruous. Brad is many things that Nate does not understand, but the man isn’t a liar –  and the irony there doesn’t escape him.

“Why are you doing this, Brad?” Nate repeats, quiet but unyielding.

Perhaps it’s because, despite making his distrust obvious when they first started working together, Nate’s never asked him before, never asked to know why Brad felt he had the right to stand with them. Perhaps it’s because they’re here instead of Brad’s office and, however little he cares about this apartment, it remains the only place he can let his guard down once in a while. Perhaps it’s because Anthony threw the words at him long enough for his body and his mind to accept them, absorb them into himself. Perhaps it’s simply Nate, with his big green eyes that refuse to let Brad look away and hide, who let himself into Brad’s home to call him out and forbid him to sacrifice himself. Perhaps it’s because Brad is tired of hiding. Perhaps it’s just because he wants Nate to know. Whatever the reason, the words, when they come, are surprisingly easy to speak.

“I’m a Jew,” Brad says.

Nate could not look more shocked if Brad had kissed him. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, and his entire body has gone slack, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Then he frowns, eyes still wide, and licks his lips as if to speak but doesn’t.

Brad feels that he should be more upset. This is, after all, the first time he’s claimed his identity for himself. Even in the protection of his home, it should have sent a shiver down his spine, a whisper of _wrong wrong wrong_ in his very soul. Instead, he finds himself transfixed by the sight of Nate and the unfathomable distress on his face. He resists the urge to take a step closer.

Nate’s voice is feeble when he asks, “What?”

“My biography says that I grew up here, in a New York orphanage, until I caught the eye of the now famous Herr Schmidt,” Brad explains. “That’s not exactly true.”

He pauses, unsure how best to continue. This is different from his meeting with Poke, who already knew half the story and was waiting for holes in Brad’s retelling, anything to trip him up. Nate is staring at him, uncomprehending, waiting for Brad to give him something that will make the world make sense again. Willing to believe him. Brad doesn’t know how to deal with that.

“I was born in San Diego,” he says, automatically adopting his briefing voice. He stops, tries again. Softer. “My mother put me up for adoption at birth, and I was adopted two months later by a Jewish couple. They were my family for the first eight years of my life. I wasn’t placed in an orphanage until the day of the surrender.”

Nate sucks in a sharp breath, and closes his eyes for a moment. He passes a hand over his mouth.

“Do you remember them?” he asks, wincing as if it is a stupid question to ask.

“Yes,” Brad replies.

He sees on Nate’s face the disbelief and the creeping horror, and the million other questions he wants to ask but can’t seem to form. Brad doesn’t think he has ever been able to read Nate more clearly. He likes it. He sees the exact moment Nate finds his words again. He straightens, his mouth goes tight, and his eyes sharpen with this intensity Nate tries to keep hidden but shines through anyway. Brad braces himself.

“Were you happy?” Nate asks.

It comes out the way you’d ask “Did anyone make it?” in front of a burning house.

Gently, quietly, Brad replies, “Yes.”

Nate’s eyes, when they meet his again, are bright and sad, the corners of his mouth turned down. Where he was slack with shock, he now looks defeated, shoulders slumped, hands grasping at nothing. There is something vacant in the way his body holds itself together that is painful to watch.

“Everything I thought I knew about you is wrong.” The tone of his voice and the way he clenches his fists speak of guilt. If there is an apology hidden in his words, though, Brad cannot tell.

“Don’t take it personally. Everything everyone thinks they know about me is wrong,” Brad says.

Nate opens his mouth and closes it without a word, still trying to make sense of it. “You never wanted any of this.” His voice is quiet in the living room.

“No.” Brad thinks for a moment. “Unfortunately, I was never in a position where sharing my honest opinion was the best tactical option.”

Nate barks a quiet laugh devoid of humour. “Yeah, I’d imagine so.” He is still looking at Brad, trying to reconcile the public persona with the man that’s standing before him now. The pieces don’t fit, no matter how much he tries to make them. Brad is two people. The Aryan poster child that smiles down at him from countless pictures and ads, and the man in this room.

For a second, Nate thinks about what it must have taken out of Brad to create this perfect persona and then live it every single day of his life, all the while walking the narrow line between image and reality without losing himself on either side.

Nate’s used to hiding who he really is, but, he admits to himself, his experiences pale in comparison to Brad’s. Nate profited more than once from his unimportance. People glance over him when they are scanning crowds. Just a bike messenger, bottom of the social hierarchy. Nobody of importance. His every move isn’t scrutinized and splashed out on papers. He takes a deep breath in when he realizes just how careful Brad has had to be every step he takes.

It’s a testament to this man that he wasn’t found out.

Brad is still looking at him, waiting for him to say something, anything, and Nate is at a loss for words.

“I guess that explains things,” he finally says, hoping Brad understands - and from the smile on Brad’s face, he does.

“What about you, though?” Brad asks, hesitantly, as if he’s not sure how his question will be received. “You could have had a great life, Nathaniel. Not necessarily in the forefront, but you could have just joined and followed the crowd, trying to live a good life. Yet you’re here. Why?”

Nate blinks. It’s only fair to answer that question, a quid pro quo. But his motivation suddenly  seems so irrelevant compared to Brad’s.

He shrugs. “It’s the right thing to do.” He forces himself to look at Brad. He wishes he could explain it better, offer a more compelling argument, but it was always this straightforward for him, and he doesn’t believe Brad would be interested in a speech anyway.

“The right thing to do,” Brad repeats. “I should have known. You’re a fucking idealist.” He shakes his head and laughs, and Nate can’t help but join, the absurdity of the situation just too much to bear. A Jew and an idealist trying to take down an oppressive regime with a merry band of misfits – what a terrible joke.

When their laughter fades, Nate looks at Brad, remembering why he came here in the first place. “It’s still a stupid plan, Brad.”

“Says the idealist.” Brad smiles, crooked and wry.

“Some of our people have waited a long time for a good opportunity to kill you. I trust Pappy, but if word gets out that Brad Colbert is looking to get himself shot, there’s no telling who’ll take you up on your offer nor how.” Nate needs Brad to understand this. The plan is bordering on reckless, and that’s something Brad is not known for. Brad Colbert takes risks, sure, but not like this.

“Well, should it fail then our little charade should be good for morale, if nothing else,” Brad replies, unfazed. “Besides, I don’t believe neither you or Mike would let any information about this slip.”

Nate shakes his head. Brad is still not getting it. "Still. The risk is too high. Pappy's the best we have, and he’s pretty damn good, but what if it goes wrong anyway?"

Brad frowns, perplexed as to what has Nate so worried.

“I don’t keep anything physical that could incriminate me or any kind of anti-government movement. In the event of my death, should my belongings be searched – and they will be – they won’t find anything to endanger any of you.”

Nate stares, speechless.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says in the growing silence.

It takes a second, and Brad looks so taken aback by the concern leaking from Nate’s tone that Nate wants to shake him. He looks at Nate the way he does sometimes, like he’s seeing him, seeing right through him, down to his bones and his most naive, foolish thoughts. And for the first time, Nate wants to let him.

Brad’s expression shifts, a light coming into his eyes that Nate wishes he could identify.

“I’ll be fine,” he says softly.

“You better be, Brad. Losing you is not an acceptable outcome.”

Brad nods slowly. “Understood.”

 

**_____________**

 

"Hey Natey-Matey, what's up?"

Ray tries to be upbeat, he really is, but God damn it does Brad make it hard on him. They'd just found their equilibrium as a group, and then Brad decides to come up with a plan that makes the US defense plan in 1944 look like a stroke of genius. Look, Ray's no idiot, he knows that Brad is in more danger than any of them and probably still in possession of most of his sanity, but Ray seriously thought Brad lost it when Mike told him about the Plan. Capital P. Pappy shooting Brad. On purpose. Ray has seen Brad and knows he's a tall motherfucker. 6’ 4’’ of superior Aryan meat. The dude’s kinda hard to miss, even if you don't have the level of skills that Pappy has.  
  
But hey, Ray's a professional, so he deals with this madness. Takes it in stride, supports it as best as he can. Hell, if he wanted normalcy, he'd have joined the other death dealing club in town, okay. Even though he still thinks that it's a stupid ass plan and that someone should talk to Brad about it. Preferably somebody else. Very preferably somebody whose last name sounds like 'fuck'.  
  
"Hey, Ray," Nate always sounds serious, and sometimes Ray has to remind himself that Nate is twenty-five. Ray's not sure he'll live to see 25, but if he does, he'll surely be a lot more irresponsible than Nate.  
  
But this tonight is a new level of serious. It's as if someone held a knife to Nate's neck. No guessing what this conversation will be about. Ray sighs and ponders his options.  
  
He thinks about playing it stupid, getting Nate to explode in his face, but realizes it wouldn't help. Nate doesn't need an outlet, he needs support. And Ray can only help Nate if Nate lets him and asks for it.  
  
After a minute of silence, Ray decides that Nate can be prompted, at least. "What can I help you with, homes? Publications of a certain kind?" he says leeringly.  
  
"Ray, I am telling you, if you get arrested for the possession of porn, I'm not lifting a finger to bail you out."  
  
As if, Ray thinks. Nate would do anything in his very limited powers to get him out. Of course Nate would. That's just who Nate is.  
  
Nate is silent for a moment, but before Ray can settle on the best battle plan, he continues, hesitantly. "So." He pauses, and this uncharacteristic trouble with getting the words out tells Ray a lot about the state of mind Nate is in.  
  
"So." Ray says, hoping to prompt Nate to go on. He'll have to wait this one out.  
  
"It will happen in the next few days," Nate says, finally, voice full of defeat.  
  
"I guess so," Ray says, careful to keep his voice even. They don't know what the plan is- Mike and Nate left Pappy and Rudy to it, after giving their initial mission, and Ray was told in no uncertain terms not to contact them. Also, Ray knows for a fact that Nate hasn't called them since. He knows because he called Pappy and Rudy and asked.  
  
"It's just." Again, the slight hesitation, as if Nate was waging a war against himself and losing. "You should be the first one to hear anything, and I just wondered if you could ... let me know. As soon as you know." His voice sounds very small at the end.  
  
"Of course, Nate." Ray doesn't say that Nate didn't have to ask - he'd have done it anyways.  
  
"Great. I just ... wanted to make sure." Again, it's the uncertainty in Nate's voice that troubles Ray.  
  
"Of course," Ray repeats. "I'll find you as soon as I hear anything."  
  
"Thanks, Ray." Nate sounds ready to hang up, and Ray can't let him go, not like this, can't end it like this, not if that's the last thing Ray ever hears from Nate.

“Do you realize how meta this whole thing is?” There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line, and Ray takes that as a sign to continue. Perhaps he’ll figure out what he says while he says it.

“It’s like… we shoot Brad, which is what everyone expects us to do, just that we shoot to protect him, not to harm him, y’know? I mean, that’s some Aristotelian bullshit for you. If you do something bad to achieve something good, does that mean it’s good overall? I mean I’d say I side more with Kant, who says your intentions have to be good to make it worthwhile, but y’know, there’s two sides to every story. So in the end, we simply prove Kant has a point, and Aristoteles can suck ass.”

  
When Nate speaks, Ray can hear a soft tone in his voice. “Thanks for that philosophy lesson, Ray. I’m sure Brad will appreciate being proof for the categorical imperative.”  
  
"Sure thing, homes. Take care."  
  
"You too, Ray." Ray can hear the smile in Nate's voice. All's good. He can let go now. **  
  
**

 

**_____________**

 

Brad doesn’t have a routine. He has a schedule, but training exercises and meetings can be adjourned and delayed and cancelled; rosters can change; public appearances depend as much on the news as they do on the whims of the press or his superiors. Truly, it’s a wonder he and Nate have managed to see each other with such regularity given how little time Brad spends in his office. He doesn’t know whether to be glad of it. Brad holds very little affection for his office and even less for the rest of the headquarters, but Nate’s visits, well. He’s beginning to look forward to them.

It isn’t that Brad has made a point to prepare for his imminent brush with death – or avoid thinking about it, either – but strategically speaking, there will be no perfect, silver platter occasion, and going out of his way to create one wouldn’t help anybody, so he keeps to his schedule, and pushes all thoughts of sightlines and bullets tearing into flesh out of his mind.

One day goes by, then a second, and it turns out Brad is surprisingly adept at setting his sense of self preservation aside in the face of assured and intentional harm.

Lunch with Walt comes on the fifth day, after a morning of pleasantly challenging meetings. Discussing strategy with competent officers never fails to put Brad in a good mood, and Godfather, for all his theatrics and his incomprehensible compulsion to come up with new, bizarre tactics, is frightfully sharp and cunning. Planning with him is always a learning experience that Brad enjoys. He’s downright cheerful as he makes his way up Lexington Avenue to Müller’s where he and Walt arranged to meet, not even minding the lurking wannabe journalists clutching cameras and making a piss poor job at hiding their presence. Anyone wearing a hat and sunglasses as a disguise in this weather ought to be shot on sight.

Walt is already seated on the small terrace when Brad arrives, oblivious to the busy street barely meters away, nose buried in a newspaper, an untouched glass of water sitting on the table in front of him. Patrons at the nearby tables throw him curious glances, but nobody seems inclined to walk up and disturb him. The glances stop completely once Brad takes a seat, excited whispers picking up instead. It’s a good thing Brad is in a good mood.

Walt folds the top half of the newspaper and shoots him a boyish smile. “Hello, Brad.”

“Walt,” Brad nods politely, lips twitching up minutely. They might not have known each other long, but since their latest lunch and the fish incident, he cannot deny the ease of their relationship, and, dare he say it, the fondness he feels for the ambassador’s son. What a waste it would have been if Ray had come back with ugly revelations.

Walt snorts, not fooled by Brad’s demure greeting, and plays along, affecting a particularly snobbish tone. “And how has your morning been, Hauptscharführer?”

Brad shrugs with an exaggerated tilt of his head and – pitches forward suddenly as something slams into him from behind and pain explodes high in his left shoulder. His arms shoot forward instinctively, the left noticeably slower, shards of glass and water pelt his hands as the table rushes up to meet him and he barely avoids hitting it face first. He hears screaming and furniture scraping harshly against the concrete of the sidewalk. Breathing hurts.

Opposite him, half crouched beside his chair, Walt is staring at him, eyes wide and fearful. Through the thunderous roar of blood rushing to his head, Brad hears his own voice ordering him to _get the fuck down_ , even as he shoves him under the table with his only fully functioning arm.

A _crack_ and _zzzzip_ follow at once, singeing Brad’s fingers and leaving a smoking bullet embedded in the wall where Walt’s head was a fraction of a second ago. The screaming gets louder. Brad flattens himself and slides quickly off his chair to join Walt. A small wooden table won’t do much for cover, but Brad takes a second to take stock of the situation. Walt appears unharmed, shaken but otherwise uninjured. That’s good. His own heartbeat is fast but steady, his breath comes in short, panting huffs but it comes. He can clench his left fist and move his arm a bit, but any movement from his shoulder sends shocks of pain through his entire chest and left side.

“Brad, you’re bleeding,” Walt whispers, reaching with trembling hands to press under Brad’s collarbone. His fingers come away red and slick. “The bullet went through. The shooter must be real close.” He presses a hand to the bleeding bullet hole, eyes darting around until they find a couple of napkins. He grabs them, quickly assesses their cleanliness and presses them against Brad’s wound. “You barely sat down, how the fuck did they know you’d be here?” Walt’s voice shakes with fear and disbelief.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up from Brad’s chest and out of his mouth before he can stop it. “I have no fucking clue.” What a wonderfully executed plan. If Brad hadn’t been inclined to take Nate’s and Mike’s word for it before, between Kaizen and this, Brad will readily endorse this Pappy guy and defend him against anyone who dares question his skills. His incongruous laughter doesn’t seem to appease Walt in the slightest, so Brad lets it die down before shifting around to find a more comfortable position.

“I can’t see shit from here,” he grits out, leaning to try and catch a glimpse of what’s happening around him. From where he’s half sprawled on the ground, he sees scattered pockets of people hiding behind flipped over tables and hastily stacked up chairs. Traffic on the street has come to a halt, the world coming to a standstill in a 50 meters radius around Brad. Most of the screaming has subsided, silence thick with apprehension hanging in the air as everyone waits for another rifle shot.

None comes.

“You alright?” Brad asks Walt, catching his eye to detect any hint of shock.

Walt’s eyes are clear. He nods. “Fine. You, on the other hand, need to go to a hospital,” he adds, moving with Brad to keep a hand on each of the entrance and exit wounds, both  sluggishly leaking blood.

“Yeah,” Brad agrees, hissing in discomfort every time he has to move his left side. “Stay here.”

Brad gets his feet under him and leans over to peer around the table. It’s been about thirty seconds since the second shot. He has no doubt that Pappy is already a block away, his nest clean and devoid of all traces of his presence, but it never hurts to be careful. The remote chance that this is an unrelated attempt on his person has to be considered.

The next best spot for cover closest to the door of the restaurant is a larger table about five meters to his right, one civilian crouched behind it. Brad makes a run for it.

No crack, no shot.

The man at his side gapes in awed horror.  “Hau-hauptscharführer Colbert, s-sir,” he stammers. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Brad replies. “Are you injured?” When the man shakes his head no, Brad nods and continues. “Given how long it has been since the last rifle shot and the noticeable absence of reaction when I broke cover, I would wager that the shooter packed up and left after missing his second shot. Now, I could be wrong, but I am reasonably certain my estimation of the situation can be trusted.”

The man is drinking Brad’s words as if, hiding behind a rickety café table in the middle of the day after having been shot at, he can’t believe his luck that Haupscharführer Colbert is addressing him directly. Brad resists the urge to sigh.

“I need you to get inside the restaurant as fast as you can and make sure someone calls the emergency services, if it isn’t already done. Can you do that?”

The man’s eyes widen, but he swallows and nods, visibly steeling himself.

“Very good. I’m going to go over to the couple on your left and check on them. Go when I go, understood?”

Another nod. Brad nods back, and goes. He hears his companion tripping over his own feet in his haste to follow.

For the next five minutes, Brad goes from table to table, checking on civilians, making himself more of a target every time he relocates. Once everyone has had the honor to thank him – what even for, he is the reason they got caught in the middle of a shooting in the first place – the police is there and ambulance sirens are blaring in the distance, closing in fast.

Walt catches up with him as Brad finally sits down for longer than a handful of seconds. His eyelids are heavy, he keeps shaking his head to try and get his vision to focus but gets dizzier every time, so he stops. Walt seems to have found towels and he hurries to press them to both sides of Brad’s shoulder as soon as he is within reach, muttering under his breath all the while.

Brad lets his gaze wander aimlessly, his head growing heavier by the second. He notices a puddle of blood on the ground. There’s more of it than he expected. He frowns.

“Was someone else hit?” his tongue sticks in his mouth but the words are clear enough.

“No, you fucking idiot,” Walt snaps, pressing harder. Brad winces. “It’s yours.”

“Oh. There’s a lot of blood.”

“No shit,” Walt mumbles angrily before something catches his attention and he raises his head. “Over here!” he shouts.

All of a sudden, Brad is surrounded by people and noise. Walt is gently pushed away as someone else takes over applying pressure on Brad’s wound. He smells alcohol and other medical products. Someone helps him stand up and his shoulder hurts like a goddamn bitch, enough that he hisses through clenched teeth, setting his entourage in a frenzy. He is led to an ambulance, the flashing lights bright even to his darkening vision. He keeps his head up, striding confidently although he seems to stumble a couple of times, feet heavy and clumsy on the even ground.

A female voice says “Please lie down, Hauptscharführer.” Brad lies down. “You’re going to need a transfusion, please stay still.” Brad stays still.

“Is everyone else okay?” he asks, drowsily. Now that he’s lying down, he feels much more tired than he did a minute ago.

The female voice materialises into a fair-haired nurse blinking down at him with a kind smile. “Everyone is fine, Hauptscharführer. You did an excellent job checking on them, they’re all grateful.”

Brad scoffs.

“We have to wait before we can give you something for the pain, is that going to be okay? How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy. Fine. I can wait.”

“You’re very brave, Hauptscharführer.”

Brad scoffs again and lets his mind drift. He doesn’t lose consciousness on the ride to the hospital, nor once they get there and he is hastily shuffled off to a private room and hooked up to several bags and machines before being wheeled away to surgery.

“Please count backward from ten, Hauptscharführer.”

He gets to four before finally passing out.


	3. Act III

Hospital food might not be the height of culinary experiences, but Brad will willingly take it over MREs, and, more importantly, there seems to be an endless supply of it. He is on his third servings of passable oatmeal when Godfather walks into the room.

 

Brad has been out of surgery for five hours, and awake for about an hour and twenty minutes. While he wasn’t consciously expecting his superior officer to visit, now that he is here, Brad is surprised he got over an hour of rest before his CO’s arrival. He starts to push the tray of food away but Godfather raises his hand.

 

“Don’t stop on my account,” he rasps with a benevolent smile, “I know how hungry getting shot makes you.”

 

Brad’s lips stretch in an answering smile, and he shoves another spoonful into his mouth under Godfather’s amused eyes.

 

“How are you feeling, son?”

 

Brad doesn’t know whether to suppress a wince or a grin. The paternal fondness his commander has for him is both a blessing and a curse, but if he’s throwing around _son_ so soon in the conversation, the plan must have had exactly the effect intended.

 

Brad shrugs one shoulder, careful to keep the movement slow and compact enough and not let the pain show. “Had worse,” he says flippantly, the kind of bravado he knows Godfather will like. He’s had worse, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

 

As if on cue, Godfather chuckles, before his expression sobers.

 

“It was a good shot gone wrong. Whether they were aiming for your head or your heart, it came close. Real close.”

 

It was a tremendously difficult shot perfectly executed, but only a handful of people will ever know that. To anyone else, it looks like a very close call, a stroke of luck for darling Brad.

 

“All due respect, sir, I’m 6’4”. Whatever you’re aiming at, I believe there’s enough of me for anyone with moderate skills not to miss.” Brad colors his words with barely concealed contempt, the arrogant soldier trying to find flaws in an enemy that got the better of him.

 

Godfather doesn’t reply, doesn’t smile.

 

“Anything on the shooter? Weapon?” Brad asks, because he has to, both for himself and to maintain the act. He hopes Pappy made it. Losing him to save Brad’s life is not worth it.

 

“Slugs found on the scene match the one we found in Kaizen’s body.”

 

Brad’s not in law enforcement, but his case must have taken priority over everything else if they’re already receiving preliminary results from forensics.

 

When no further information follows and the silence stretches just a beat too long, part of the weight Brad’s carried since he woke up from surgery falls off his shoulders. No one was caught. Pappy got away. He is safe. Nate is safe. Their plan worked.

 

“Same guy, then,” Brad says, not showing a trace of his relief. Cool, clipped tone. The Iceman, just like Godfather likes him.

 

“We’re not releasing that information.” Godfather grins. “I already have half the press on my ass screaming for blood, and your office has received over a hundred get well letters and telegrams from all over the country, no need to fuel the fire. Better to keep the people ignorant of wider political ramifications.”

 

Brad nods, takes another spoonful of oatmeal. With the war with Japan imminent, putting Brad and Kaizen on the same metaphorical boat is the last thing they should do. Better to play on the people’s emotional response to gather support, and that emotional response, as always when it comes to Brad, is as disturbing as it is staggering. Godfather looks pleased, as if he couldn’t have planned it better himself. At least, Brad thinks wryly, this time the plan works for him, too.

 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Godfather adds after watching Brad put the pieces together, “you getting shot is something that I will not tolerate, but I trust that you understand as well as I do how well it serves our purpose.”

 

“I do, sir.”

 

“Good.”

 

Brad finishes his breakfast, pushes the tray away and straightens up, pushing on his arms to get himself properly upright. The pillow propping him up isn’t as soft as he first expected but enough to be more of a hindrance than actual support. Godfather watches him, eyes sharp. He doesn’t tell Brad to take it easy, doesn’t offer to help, just waits in silence until Brad finds a comfortable position.

 

“Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?” he asks once Brad has stopped fidgeting.

 

Brad makes a face, doesn’t deny it. Godfather nods, satisfied, and sometimes Brad wishes he couldn’t understand the man as clearly as he does. Godfather appreciates relentlessness above all else - never yielding, never giving in. If you get killed, walk it off.

 

“These sons of bitches don’t know what’s coming for them. Once the Neutral Zone is under our command, there will be nowhere to hide, nowhere to flee. We’ll see how they like being in the resistance then.”

 

He laughs again, a short, raspy chuckle that makes Brad’s stomach sink. Brad’s lack of outward reaction doesn’t seem to phase him, though, as he nods to himself before standing up, ready to take his leave.

 

“Outstanding job, Colbert. When you come back, there’ll be plenty of work to do, so stay frosty.”

 

“I shall, sir.”

 

Another disturbingly fond smile and Godfather is gone, leaving Brad suddenly drained and free to enjoy his pain medication. He needs to contact Nate, or Mike, or Ray, to tell them the plan worked, but he can’t risk using the phone here. The newspapers are probably churning out special editions whenever there’s an update about his condition. It will have to be enough for now. Sometimes being a public persona has its advantages. His eyes close of their own volition, and between one breath and the next, he goes back to sleep.

 

____________

 

Brad is half-listening to his doctors telling him to take it easy when he spots a familiar figure hovering in the doorway to his hospital room.

 

“Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all,” he says curtly, interrupting the torrent of instructions being given to him and sending the group of doctors assembled around his bed into a stuttering fit. When they don’t move, he gives them a pointed look.

 

“I have a visitor, and I am fairly certain that my body is able to withstand the stress of holding a conversation whilst I’m lying in bed. I will call you when I’m done here.” He notes with satisfaction that it does the trick. The doctors leave, and Walt steps into his room, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

 

“I see they didn’t do surgery on your personality,” Walt says, grinning. He pulls up a chair and sits down next to Brad, putting the flowers on a table next to him. The slight tremble in his hands doesn’t escape Brad, just like the deep rings under his eyes. Brad would be willing to bet all his money that Walt didn’t sleep while he was in surgery.

 

He wants to apologize to Walt, for what he put him through. Brad is a soldier. He has seen people get shot, he has gotten shot before, but he knows that Walt is not used to the violence like he is. By some miracle, Walt’s managed to preserve a certain innocence in his character, and Brad is responsible for destroying some of it. He suddenly wishes Pappy would have picked any other opportunity, any other public outing, and he realizes how stupid a wish that is. They do what they have to do, whatever it takes.

 

“Beautiful flowers, Walt.”

 

Walt’s smiles turns half bashful, half embarrassed. “They’re, um… They’re from my parents. To  thank you for protecting me.”

 

The words feel like a sucker punch to Brad’s stomach. Protecting Walt. As if. He’s the one who brought him into danger in the first place. Oblivious, Walt continues.

 

“They say that if you ever need a favour, you should let them know.” Now Walt is positively blushing. “Um. I mean. They are just really happy I got out of there unharmed.” After a second, he looks at Brad, shocked. “I mean, they are not happy you got hurt.”

 

“It’s okay, Walt. I know what you mean.” Their sympathy and care surprise him. He only met them briefly at the Opera. It’s never bad to have an influential benefactor, but this offer goes beyond that.

 

“Tell them thanks, and that it was nothing.” Walt starts to protest, but Brad continues. “Really, Walt. It’s okay.” He looks at Walt, hoping to get his point across.

 

Walt just nods. His face suddenly brightens up and he reaches into his bag, eager to put the moment behind them. “I have something special for you, to cheer you up.” He digs around in his bag and finally pulls out a newspaper.

 

Brad sees himself on the front page. The picture must have been taken shortly after he got hit - the left side of his shirt is bloody, and he is staring straight at the photographer. Brad doesn’t remember much of the immediate aftermath, but he remembers trying to control the situation.

 

“Thank you, Walter, I do remember what happened. I was, as you know, present at the time.”

 

Walt just rolls his eyes and opens the newspaper. He turns page after page until he finds what he is looking for. He pushes the paper at Brad. Brad looks down, eyes skimming the title at the top of the page. Letters to the Editor. Still clueless as to why Walt would insist that he reads it, he starts reading.

 

The first two letters are pretty much what he expected – thanks to Brad, mindless repetition of propaganda slogans – but the third one catches his eye.

 

 

 

> Dear Hauptscharführer Colbert,
> 
>  
> 
> I'm sorry the bad men hurt you, but I am glad they did not kill you, so that you can keep protecting us and make sure the National Socialist States of America are safe and better than everybody.
> 
> Get well soon,
> 
> Frederik.
> 
>  
> 
> ps: my mom thinks you have nice abs

 

“There are pictures of you after the nurses had to cut your shirt off,” Walt points out, grinning broadly.

Brad slowly raises his gaze and looks at Walt, hoping the embarrassment doesn’t show on his face. A not-so-small part of him cannot help being peeved by this. Brad knows he’s well liked, popular, the object of countless articles and photographs, but he tries to ignore this part of his life as much as he can. It just doesn’t sit well with him. There’s no way to control the fickle love of the people, and he never asked for it. He never wanted any of this.

 

He must have remained silent for too long, because Walt is stepping closer, hand hovering hesitantly above Brad’s arm, smile wavering as he calls, “Brad?”

Brad folds the newspaper. He raises an exaggeratedly unimpressed eyebrow at Walt, trusting the kid to pick up on his attempt at playfulness and steer clear of unnecessary worry.

 

Walt grins, and starts chattering about what’s been going on outside since the shooting. Brad listens dutifully but doesn’t offer any remarks, and soon enough the room is quiet again. In the growing silence, Brad asks the question he knows Walt has been trying to distract him from since he walked in.

 

“Walt, are you okay?”

 

To his surprise, when he catches Walt’s eyes, Walt is already looking back at him. He has dropped the smile, but despite the bags under his eyes, the persistent tremor in his hands and general fidgeting, he isn’t as shaken up as he could be. His voice, when he answers, is controlled, if quiet. “They said the second bullet was for me.”

 

It wasn’t, but Brad cannot tell him. It was simply a distraction, a way to cause more chaos. Instead, he nods, the memory of a zip and crack and a smoking hole in a wall flashing behind his eyelids when he blinks.

 

“You know,” Walt huffs with a self-deprecating smile, “being saved by you made me even more famous than being your friend.”

 

“I didn’t save you.” It comes out before Brad can stop it, but it’s true.

 

“Yeah, you did.” Walt shrugs. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, unlikely to go on about his honor and owing Brad a debt for life. There is something, though, in the way his lips tighten and his fingers tap a fast staccato against his thigh, that has Brad on guard.

 

He reaches for the glass on the nightstand next to his bed, the movement slow but visible enough that it distracts Walt without compelling him to offer help. Brad takes a long sip of water, studiously not watching Walt. The tension coming off of the kid is so strong, Brad doesn’t need visual confirmation.

 

Walt is as obvious an enemy of the regime as it is possible to be given the circumstances. And now Hauptscharführer Colbert, who has to have known almost since the beginning, has saved his life after taking him under his wing despite the off-hand warnings and thinly veiled threats. Walt is not stupid, and worse than that, he is an optimist. Whatever he is gearing up to do or say, Brad would rather he not do it in a place where they can be easily overheard by a wide variety of people. He puts the glass back down on the nightstand and feigns a yawn.

 

Walt throws him a guilty look. “Am I keeping you up? Shit. Sorry.”

 

And Brad feels bad about nodding, but he does anyway. “Technically, I am keeping myself up,” he amends, “but the pain medication they have me on is pretty heavy, I’m afraid.”

 

Walt bites his lip, and nods. The way he deflates visibly makes Brad wince.

 

“I’m going to ask for an early release,” he says, casually shifting on the bed to find a more comfortable position. “We’ll talk more when I’m back at my apartment.”

Walt hesitates, licking his lips to speak before nodding. He gets up, as if suddenly in a hurry to get out.

 

“Thank your parents for the flowers,” Brad says again.

 

Walt dutifully promises to. His eyes, when he casts one last look at Brad on his way out, haven’t lost their speculative gleam.

 

Brad sighs. One more thing to tell Nate and Mike.  

 

____________

 

 

Getting out of the hospital is almost as painful as getting in, albeit for different reasons.

 

“What sort of Hippocratic Oath did you take?” grouses Brad as the nurse hands him a fifth sheet to sign. “My right arm threatens to soon be as useless as my left.”

 

“It is called discharge against medical advice for a reason, Scharführer,” Doctor Guthrat snaps back, hovering over Brad’s shoulder with a scowl on his face.

 

“I’ve been here five days already,” Brad points out. “And it’s Hauptscharführer.”

 

“Which is nowhere nearly as long as half the time you should stay. Hauptscharführer.”

Brad hums, uninterested. The sling for his left arm and shoulder is tight and secure, he managed to get dressed all by himself, and he went over how long and when to take his medication with two separate nurses, and Doctor Guthrat himself. There is no reason for him to stay. He is useless here, cannot get in contact with anyone, doesn’t know what’s happening outside, and it’s driving him crazy.

 

“You have all the information required for the delivery of my medication and my sincerest word that I will follow your prescription to the letter. You have yourself arranged for bi-weekly visits with the visiting nurse services. Do you want to hold my hand until my official escort gets here in an attempt to physically keep me in the building, or are you ready to accept that I can and am about to leave your care whether you like it or not? I would hate to have to call Oberführer Ferrando and have him convince you.”

 

Brad is aware that his tone is clipped and harsh and that he is looming, but the doctor is standing between him and the door and Brad wants out. Fortunately, although fortune has little to do with it, mentioning Godfather does the trick. It usually does, as much as Brad despises every occasion he stoops low enough to use it.

 

He affixes his name at the bottom of yet one more page of legal babble to declare that yes, he is cognizant and fully aware of the consequences of his decision, should there be any, no, there is no need to fire or sue Doctor Guthrat in case of complications in the healing of his injury. And then there is the door, free of obstacle; a sea of flashes and, behind, the car; more flashes, and then the door to his building being held open by the concierge who wears the same stupid, hero-worshipping smile the hospital staff sported during Brad’s short stay. Brad ignores it and walks to the elevator on autopilot.

 

He closes the door of the apartment behind himself and leans against it. He is out of breath, his chest hurts, and he can’t feel his left side except for occasional shocks from his scapula to his wrist. So perhaps the trip home had turned out more tiring than he anticipated. He would still rather be tired here than back at the hospital. He has phone calls to make, letters to write, but it’s late, he’s tired, and the news of his going home will make the rounds through the headquarters soon enough.

 

Brad makes it to the couch, lies down, and manages to grab the blanket before falling asleep.

 

At four am, he wakes up and drags his feet to the kitchen to find a small note stuck on the fridge with a magnet that looks like the Lady Liberty. Brad is pretty sure he doesn’t own any magnets shaped like tourist attractions. He carefully peels the paper off the fridge, his left hand stroking over the magnet.

 

_Get well soon, Bradley! Am available to lick your wounds anytime! Call me when you’re awake! xoxo ♡_

 

Brad’s first thought is: I am going to kill Ray. His second thought goes as far as “How did he” before being snuffed out by an odd sense of relief. They kept watch.

 

He pours himself a glass of water, sticks the note back on the fridge and shuffles to the couch to get more sleep.

 

When he wakes up, it’s late afternoon and Nate is standing in his living room.

 

Brad blinks once, twice, to make sure that this is not some weird, drug-induced dream. He suspects he would be in less pain if that were the case. He sits up carefully. The trick, he decides, is to hold his upper body as still as possible while moving around.

 

“How did you get in?” he asks, hoping the question will distract Nate from the lack of grace on his part.

 

“Ray gave me the keys,” Nate says, voice carefully devoid of any emotion. He’s still staring at Brad, watching him move, which makes Brad even more conscious of the fact that the better half of his body is violently protesting his every move.

 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Nate asks once Brad sits up straight on his couch.

 

“Probably,” Brad mumbles, his left side sending flares of pain through his body.

 

Instead of fighting or, worse, helping him, Nate just nods and reaches into his satchel. “I brought your pain meds. First delivery was only scheduled for tomorrow but I figured you forgot to bring some home.”

 

Brad didn’t. Nate has to know this, yet here he is anyway. Brad looks at him, carefully. The skin around his eyes isn’t tight the way it is when he is dropping by off hours, when he is calculating the risks of being stopped and asked what he was doing out in this particular area of the city.

 

Nate shakes his head and walks into the kitchen. The slight hesitation in his steps speaks of awkwardness more than tension.

 

Nate convinced his employer to schedule a stop here despite knowing there was no need and the risks involved in doing so. Something inside Brad surges and settles in the space of a breath. If Nate isn’t going to mention it, though, then neither is Brad. They have more urgent things to talk about, anyways.

 

“It warms my heart to see how well you know me,” Brad answers easily, even though his body protests. Now that Nate has brought up the topic, taking the meds sounds like a good idea, but Brad knows he has to be careful with the dosage. He needs enough to give his body a rest now, yet be fully conscious tomorrow morning. He cannot afford to be knocked out for days, not when there’s a manhunt going on out there for his friends.

 

He can hear Nate rummaging through his kitchen. When he comes back to the living room, he is carrying a tray with a bowl sitting on it, its content steaming hot, the familiar pain pills next to it. Nate walks around the couch and carefully hands the tray to Brad.

 

“You haven’t eaten since the hospital, have you?” Nate asks, although by his tone he already knows he’s right. This time, he is.

 

Brad looks down at the bowl in his lap. “I wasn’t aware the contents of my cupboards contained the required ingredients for this,” he says instead, completely bypassing Nate’s assumption. In response, Nate ducks his head, the gesture as unexpected as it is arresting. Brad’s fingers twitch around the bowl.

 

“I wasn’t sure you had any food around,” Nate says, almost hitting casual but for the catch in his voice at the beginning of the sentence.

 

Brad keeps his eyes on the bowl – it’s chicken soup, probably the only thing his stomach can handle right now – before shifting his gaze back to Nate.

 

“Thank you, Nate.” He could have managed without the food delivery – there’s some cans of watery vegetable soup, and stuff in the freezer that he could prepare even one-handed, but Brad’s relieved he doesn’t have to. More than that, he’s touched that someone would do this for him. That Nate would.

 

Nate awkwardly shrugs his shoulders. “It’s nothing, really.”

 

Brad takes the pills before he starts eating. The soup is hot and strong and good, and he wonders where Nate got it from. He knows little to nothing about Nate’s everyday life, Brad suddenly realizes. Where he lives, for example. He suspects he lives with Mike, but has no idea in which part of town. Brad wonders if he could ask now and why exactly he wants to know.

 

He looks up to see Nate standing at his bookshelf. Huh. Brad never heard him move. He must really be out of it. His situational awareness is shot to pieces.

 

“Help yourself if you find a book you want to borrow. I usually only read them once.” He gestures towards the shelf with his head, the only part of his body that is relatively pain-free to move.

 

Nate turns around, a book in his hand and a smile on his face. “Don’t tempt me.” His voice is easy and Brad can’t help but smile a bit. “I will definitely take you up on this offer.” He turns back to the shelf.

 

“Good to know,” Brad says, and continues eating. Silence falls, occasionally interrupted by Nate removing a book from the shelf or Brad hissing at random bouts of pain flaring sharply despite his best efforts. This is not the first time Brad has been injured, but every time, he cannot help feel betrayed. His body is his weapon, honed perfectly to fulfill his every command. Brad isn’t used to being let down or even limited by his body, and it frustrates him more than the pain ever could.

 

He’s read the medical discharge sheet – it will take him several weeks to get back to active duty, and this grinds on him. He may be able to go back to the office tomorrow, but he won’t be doing anything besides filling out paperwork for a long time. Brad is a soldier, and paperwork isn’t his favourite thing to do at the best of times. He knew this would happen, but it’s still frustrating.

 

Nate is there when Brad is finished with his soup, taking the tray without comment and bringing it back to the kitchen.

 

“Ray says hi and to take it easy,” Nate says, walking back into the living room.

 

Brad nods. “Tell him thanks, even though I am a bit disappointed in him.” He continues quickly when he sees Nate’s face falling. “I’m sure he loved that damn letter to the editor.”

 

Nate’s face lights up. “Yeah, it gave him a good laugh. Bought a couple of copies of the newspaper.”

 

Brad’s stomach does a weird flip. He commits this image of Nate half-smiling, one corner of his lips curling up, to memory. If things ever got real bad. He absent-mindedly thinks that the pain meds must be kicking in for him to be having these thoughts at all.

 

“So apart from that letter, I think everything went according to plan,” he says, gracelessly changing the subject. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, though, he wishes he could take them back. Nate’s face falls, his smile disappearing behind a frown.

 

Nate looks at Brad for a long minute, before breaking the growing silence with a muted, “Yeah, it did. Pappy was out of New York City within the hour and made it to Poke’s without trouble.” He turns around, back to the kitchen, to his satchel, and Brad realizes that he cannot read Nate at all right now and fervently wishes he could.

 

“That’s good,” Brad says, because it is.

 

“I left your meds on the kitchen counter,” Nate says tonelessly, wandering back towards Brad. “I will be back tomorrow evening with the next dosage.” He pauses for moment before continuing. “That thing you did. Don’t do that again. Ever.” His green eyes pin Brad in place, compel him to nod.

 

“Tell Pappy he’s a hell of a shot.” Brad has seen the trajectory calculations. Godfather thinks it was a difficult shot gone wrong, but Brad knows that it was a tremendous shot gone perfectly right.

 

Nate just nods once, still staring at him like he can’t let go. “Will do.”

 

Brad shakes himself. Keeping his eyes open is becoming a struggle.

 

“Godfather bought it,” he says, wanting to make sure Nate knows before the meds put him back to sleep. “Hook, line and sinker. It was worth the shot.” His face scrunches up, as if confused, before his lips curl in appalled disgust at the word choice.

 

Nate steps up to the couch and carefully drapes the blanket on Brad’s body. He seems to chew on what to reply, not as satisfied as Brad would have expected, before settling for “I’m glad it worked.” His voice is quiet, his gaze soft and just a touch wary.  

 

“Tell Ray I said hi,” Brad says, fighting to stay awake. He doesn’t want to sleep while Nate’s here. Nate looks nice when he’s not in Brad’s office.  

 

“You already told me to, Brad,” Nate says softly. “I’ll leave now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Stay safe,” Brad mumbles, almost asleep. There is a chuckle, and Brad smiles at the sound. Finally, he hears the front door closing softly.

 

-

 

“How’s he doing?” Mike asks Nate as soon as Nate steps into their apartment. He’s sitting on the couch, surrounded by newspapers that all have Brad’s face plastered on the front pages. Nate looks away.

 

For the past three days, he’s been greeted by the same pictures everywhere he goes. Brad coated in blood. Brad staring right at the cameras with a feral look on his face. Brad being led into the ambulance. Just when Nate thought it couldn’t get any worse, Brad decided to discharge himself from the hospital, causing a new wave of pictures of him. Nate grinds his teeth. Nothing to be done about it. This was part of their plan, to create even more public support for Brad, but seeing those pictures still turn his stomach every time.

 

“About as well as expected. Didn’t complain about the pain, took his meds.” Nate is not sure what else to say. What he can say. Seeing Brad upset him more than he thought, and leaving him behind like that helpless, was harder than expected. And there’s a part of Nate - no small part - that wants to go back and stay.

 

Instead, Nate sits down on the couch next to Mike, grabbing his satchel.

 

“He’s alright?” Mike says, again, worry in his voice. They only heard from Ray that Brad was “holding up, but probably in need of some pharmaceutical support” and decided to send Nate in early to check up on Brad.

 

“Yeah. Stubborn fucker. He’s not even in bed, just lying on the couch.”

 

Nate shakes his head. Brad looked so vulnerable, which felt … wrong. Brad is strong and steel-willed and stands up straight no matter what, and seeing him slouching half-naked on the couch told him a lot about the level of pain Brad was in. It’s hard to remember at times that Brad’s only human.

 

“He’ll be fine,” Mike says, and it takes a second for Nate to realize that Mike is trying to reassure him. “You’ll see him again tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah,” Nate says, schooling his features into casual indifference. He grabs his bag and pulls the book he took from Brad’s library out of it, waves it at Mike. “Look what I found.”

 

“The Return of the King?” Mike reads, amused. “How long have you been looking for the damn thing?”

 

Nate snorts. “I can’t even remember. Should have known Brad has the whole series. No more trying to hunt it down in bookshops for me. I finally get to read how it all ends.”

 

____________

 

 

> **MEDAL OF HONOR FOR COLBERT**
> 
>  
> 
> In his first outing since the tragic shooting ten days ago, HSF Colbert received the newly minted Medal of Resistance from the hands of the leader of the Eastern Army, SS-Oberführer Ferrando. Colbert has already received The Blood Cross, and of course the meretricious Medal of Outstanding Contributions to the Fatherland.
> 
>  
> 
> Colbert had his arm still held in a sling but otherwise showing no trace of his injury. He smiled and waved at the waiting crowd outside, but didn't make any comments to the attending Press Corps. His office later issued a press release, calling it a "great honor to be the first recipient of this medal."
> 
>  
> 
> He continued: "I would have willingly given my life, and I expect every other citizen of the Reich to do the same in the face of adversity." Oberführer Ferrando praised Colbert for his fearless behaviour, calling him a model for every single citizen, military or not. "I expect everyone to have the same amount of steadfastness and resolve in the face of the enemy that Colbert showed," he explained.
> 
>  
> 
> This was the first outing of Colbert since his early hospital discharge seven days ago (as we reported previously.) The guest of honor looked relaxed and on his way back to perfect health. He clearly is a testament to the superiority of the Aryan race.
> 
>  
> 
> Meanwhile, the investigations into the shooting are still ongoing. The expert team now received additional manpower - from Germany. The shooting has not gone unnoticed in the motherland, with unnamed sources confirming that the Führer himself called the German Ambassador, H. Hasser, to inquire about the health of his son. Walter Hasser was present at the time of the shooting, but escaped unharmed. The Führer reportedly personally arranged for eight criminal experts to join the investigation team on site. Sturmbannführer Olgart, well-known abroad for his outstanding career, has been appointed head of the investigation and arrived a few days ago with his own hand-picked team.
> 
>  
> 
> Meanwhile, Oberführer Ferrando underlined that this investigation is of great importance to him personally: "They hurt one of us, and they will bleed for it."

  
  
____________

 

It takes ten full days after Brad comes home for Walt to come knocking. It is both less and more than Brad expected.

 

During those ten days, they speak on the phone, exchange pleasantries, Walt asks about Brad’s recovery and Brad dutifully answers. Brad also receives a card from Mr and Mrs Hasser, who seemed to think the flowers weren’t enough. He uses his professional stationery to write back, the glinting golden letterhead informing Walt’s parents that Hauptscharführer Colbert, SS Elite Unit Kampfhund, thanks them for the attention.

 

It has all been very proper and politically correct, exactly what you’d expect. But it’s not what Brad needs to discuss with Walt, and he knows there is a big discussion coming.

 

Walt’s smile, when Brad opens the door, is just as proper. For a second, Brad wishes he had not grown so fond of Walt. Or Nate, or Poke. Or, hell, even Ray. Deciding to do the right thing is easier when you don’t have anyone to drag down with you. It’s also less effective, a small voice in his head reminds him.

 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Brad announces grandly and steps aside to leave room for Walt to come in. Walt eyes the sleeve keeping Brad’s left arm still and secure before walking past him and into the apartment.  

 

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Walt asks, shooting an interrogative look at Brad over his shoulder. Brad snorts.

 

“I am currently not authorized to even set foot at the headquarters, and, fortunately perhaps, my colleagues are not keen on social calls. Besides, I doubt my body is up for anything more demanding than slowly shuffling around.”

 

The joke falls flat between them and Walt studies him for a second. “You must be going out of your mind,” he says with a sympathetic smile.

 

“I am being sensible,” Brad argues, following Walt into the living room and gesturing at him to do so as well when he sits on the dark leather couch. “I need to be mindful of my injury and the best way for it to heal as quickly and effectively as it can is for me to rest and take it easy.”

 

The last words are spoken with enough blatant disdain that Walt chuckles.

 

“This is a pretty nice place,” Walt says, looking around curiously from the tall windows to the high ceiling to the oak parquet. The apartment is all dark colors with metal brass and marble accents, and furniture that is either luxurious, artistic, decadently comfortable, or all three at once. Brad did not choose a single piece of it himself.

 

“One of the benefits of the position,” Brad says, and just like that, the conversation switch from Brad and Walt making small talk to Hauptscharführer Colbert receiving the son of Ambassador Hasser.

 

To Walt’s credit, his expression doesn’t falter. His gaze travels across the large room, skipping then lingering then jumping again to a new point of focus. The nervous energy so obvious at the hospital has been tamed to something smaller, quieter, but it leaks through, one tiny drop for every second Walt’s eyes skitter to the side before coming back to study one object or another. Brad waits.

 

“You don’t like it much, do you?” Walt says eventually. He doesn’t specify whether he means the apartment or the position, though Brad guesses that is the point. Walt must have been talking double-speak since he was a child.

 

Brad is tired, but he is not an idiot. Walt may have Ray’s approval, but Brad has twenty years of keeping his cards close to his chest. He doesn’t take the bait.

 

“It’s not what I would have chosen for myself, but it does what it must.”

 

Walt smiles, his attention shifting back to Brad. “Contain you?”

 

The word choice strikes Brad as both odd and inexpressibly accurate. It must show on his face as he fails to either object or agree, because something flickers across Walt’s face, his controlled energy seeming to spike for one short breath, his gaze sharpening with determination.

 

Walt bites his lower lip, straightens up and says “Brad.”

 

And just like that, Brad realizes that whatever comes out of Walt’s mouth next will not be proper nor politically correct and that, for better or worse, Brad won’t stop him.

 

“I didn’t grow up with you,” Walt starts after a brief hesitation, as if he can see his point but not how to get there. “Not like people here did, with your face in magazines and on posters, your words in articles, and your voice on the radio. In Germany, people don’t know about you, or if they do, they do not care.” He pauses, lets out a mirthless chuckle, but doesn’t immediately continue. Brad wonders whether looking encouraging or forbidding would be best, but it doesn’t matter because Walt’s gaze has drifted to the window again.

 

“Okay, I’m going to say it now and save us both the trouble of pretending it’s news,” Walt says at last, words coming out in a rush but with precise clarity. “Neither me nor my parents support the Reich. You knew it, I sure as hell have always known, let’s get it out of the way.”

 

Brad has received punches with less impact than Walt’s confession. The kid isn’t wrong, Brad did know, but it doesn’t make it any less shocking to have him blurt it out so bluntly. Brad’s surge of anger takes him by surprise. He’s standing and snapping “What the fuck, Walt?” before he registers that he’s moved.

 

Walt flinches at the outburst, fear showing in his eyes for the first time since he entered the apartment.

 

“You did know,” Walt insists. His voice shakes and his eyes are wide, but it isn’t a question. However he came to that conclusion – and Brad will have to ask – he is holding Brad to it, not letting him get out of it and back to safe grounds.

 

Brad breathes deeply once, twice, then sits back down without answering. Walt watches him warily but doesn’t move, simply keeps looking at him, unnervingly determined.

 

“It’s easier in Germany,” Walt continues after they’ve both found their footing again. “You wouldn’t think so, but the truth is that the nazis over there have ruled for almost three decades. They were always confident, and with over half the world theirs, they have grown complacent. It’s different here. You are new, you need to be converted and taught. Resistance is part of the process. The motherland is a rock, has been for so long with so little opposition that, once you reach a certain level, nobody would ever even imagine that you do not support the Reich. When you see someone standing in front of you, you do not question whether they are breathing or not. Of course they are. Is Ambassador Hasser a faithful national socialist? Of course he is.”

 

“The Führer is old and his hounds are looking outward,” Brad muses.

 

“Yeah,” Walt agrees. Though he keeps watching Brad with caution, his hands are relaxed, and his posture loose. It is clear that, while aware of the risk he was taking by deciding to show his cards, Walt was and is certain that he is right, and that Brad will not sell him out.

 

It makes something churn in Brad’s stomach. He had to give up his secret to gain Poke’s trust, had to work hard to earn Mike’s, had to _spill blood_ to earn Nate’s, and here is Walt Hasser, shoving his trust at him and putting his life in Brad’s hands of his own volition. It terrifies him. He wonders if this is how Mike feels every time they recruit someone new.

 

Walt lets the silence linger before taking another deep breath. He clearly doesn’t expect Brad to speak. Brad doesn’t know whether to be grateful or wary.

 

“My mom always says that the trick to surviving being surrounded by Nazis at all times is to not trust any of them, and to watch out for the particularly dangerous ones.”

 

At that, Brad has to ask. “And who are those?” he asks, a twist to his lips, amused and angry and anxious.

 

“The ones who are smart and quiet about it,” Walt answers, looking straight at Brad. It is not an accusation, although it could be. “Someone who sides with the Nazis and is smart enough to not feel the need to be loud about it is either very dangerous,” Walt continues, gaze unwavering, “or lying.” He cocks his head and looks at Brad.

 

And here comes the accusation. Brad makes himself comfortable on the couch, lets the leather soften and mold itself to accommodate his shoulders and back. The absence of panic both surprises him and not. This is only half of the secret, and he was expecting it. Walt, yet again, does not wait for either rebuttal nor agreement.

 

“The thing is, I already know you’re dangerous,” he says. “But I also think you’re lying.”

 

It’s strange to be accused of being a good person. In all his years, it isn’t an allegation Brad ever thought he would face. Tales of the opposite have kept him safe for so long.

 

“Is that so?” he asks.

 

And Walt, bright blue eyes and a face made for smiling, doesn’t wait a beat to say, “Yes.”

 

Brad, perhaps because he wants to scare him, perhaps because he is scared himself, asks “Does anyone know you’re here, Walt?”

 

Walt, perhaps because he is actually insane, perhaps because he is the most perceptive person Brad’s ever met, grins, boyish and pleased and utterly unafraid, and says, “Yes.”

 

Smart and quiet about it. Brad lets out something between a huff and a laugh and slowly grins back.

 

____________

 

“Heard they almost wanted to amputate his arm, but he begged them not to,” Intern 1 says. Brad is tempted to roll his eyes. Of course. The internal gossip machine is running wild by now, two weeks of his absence probably stoking the glints of gossip to the a full scale fire.

 

Intern 2 bows across the table, even though Brad can hear everything well enough from where he is standing halfway across the room. They do not seem to feel like they have to be careful of who’s listening in, and that more than anything tells Brad about the current state of affairs at the headquarters.

 

“Heard he refused anaesthetic for the surgery,” intern 2 says, obviously eager to add to the conversation.

 

Brad inches closer, careful not to make any noise at all.

 

“Yeah, and he released himself after two days. Doctors said they never seen anyone bouncing back so quickly,” intern 1 says, which elicits a quiet “damn” from intern 3.

 

“Well, I heard he was clinically dead at some point,” intern 2 says, and Brad decides it’s time to step in.

 

He clears his throat, and three heads snap towards him so fast Brad can nearly hear the whiplash. Three sets of eyes look at him, disbelieving.

 

“Where’s Godfather?” he says as the three interns are getting up quickly, trying to stand at attention and miserably failing. Intern 2 is so eager to get up that his chair flips over, landing on the floor with a resounding crash.

 

They keep staring at him in disbelief, so Brad sighs. “I see the minimum intellectual requirements for working here have not been increased during my absence. Unfortunately, contrary to you, my time is precious, so I will ask again. Where is Godfather?”

 

“Um.. he’s .. um,” intern 1 stutters, and Brad almost feels bad for him. Instead, he takes a deep breath to calm himself, and immediately regrets it. Breathing is still a painful necessity, and his body protests deep breaths viciously by sending sharp pain through the left side of his body. He closes his eyes, trying to get a grip on the pain. Control it. Ignore it.

 

Brad opens his eyes and stares at intern 3. “You.”

 

The kid nods, which Brad takes as an encouraging sign. “I’m going to keep this as simple as possible. Three words. Even you should be able to understand. Where. Is. Godfather,” he says, slow and clipped.

 

It works because it makes him sound angry and annoyed, whereas in reality it’s the easiest way to talk without upsetting his lung too much. Brad takes every comfort he can, knowing there’s a long day ahead.

 

“The Situation Room, sir,” Intern 3 finally says, almost bowing over.

 

Brad just nods and turns, walking out of the room, aware that all eyes are on him, and not caring.

 

His entrance in the Situation Room is no less dramatic. Godfather catches a glimpse of him as soon as Brad crosses the doorstep, and pauses in his speech.

 

Brad cringes internally - it seems like Godfather was just talking to the assembled men in the room, and Brad stepped on his moment. However, to his surprise, Godfather doesn’t seem to take the interruption personally.

 

“The man of the hour, gentlemen! The man of the hour,” Godfather calls, looking at Brad. Everybody else duly turns around and nods at Brad. Some even salute him. Brad takes note of their faces and decides to avoid them at all costs.

 

Brad just nods and positions himself near the rear wall as he waits for Godfather to continue. He’s not here to talk, he’s here to be seen and to see what the security apparatus has in store for his friends.

 

He doesn’t have to wait for long. Godfather dismisses the men after a few more words and walks up to Brad.

 

“Colbert. Good to see you. How are you doing?”

 

Brad just nods, aware that the entire room is listening to them. “Very well. Thank you, sir.”

 

Godfather nods. “I have to brief the General Commander, but I’m sure you’ll keep yourself busy. Redford from the Investigative Committee will need to take your statement at some point.” He slaps Brad on his left shoulder. The contact makes Brad’s body erupt in pain. As Godfather looks as him, Brad has no doubt this was a calculated move.

 

Brad focuses on keeping a perfectly blank face. He nods. “Of course, sir. I’ll be happy to give my statement, even though I am not sure of how much use it will be.”

 

Godfather just chuckles, leaves without a further word.

 

Before Brad can decide what to do next, Steinbrunner walks up to Brad. “Good to see you, Colbert.” He sounds genuinely happy, but Brad is mostly relieved he abstains from touching him. His left side still hurts from Godfather’s clap, and Brad is sure he will feel it for the rest of the day.

 

Instead of acknowledging his pain, he focuses on Steinmeier’s briefing. They imposed an immense security operation after the shots were fired - blocked streets, random arrests, interrogations of suspected collaborators - the machine is using every single tool at its disposal.

 

Brad would be almost touched if he wasn’t so relieved that for all the might and power, they haven’t found a single thing. He listens more and more anxiously for hints that they found traces that could lead them to his friends, but they have nothing at all.

 

After Steinbrunner finishes, Brad is silent. He cannot believe how lucky they are. It seems like they are getting away with this.

 

Steinbrunner misinterprets Brad’s silence. “I know it might sound disappointing, Brad, but we really are turning every stone over. We know we’ll get those bastards sooner or later.” His voice drops to an almost whisper and he moves closer to Brad.

 

“Between you and me though, I’m glad you’re back this quickly. This is an unprecedented emergency. They never dared to touch an officer of the Reich before. If they got you, they can get everyone. We need you more than ever, Brad.” Steinbrunner looks at Brad, almost desperately.

 

Brad nods and smiles politely. “I’m going to help you every way that I can to get those bastards.” His voice is completely even, long since used to lies and half-truths.

 

Steinbrunner sighs, relieved. “Thank God. With Colbert on our side, how can we not win?” he chuckles.

 

“Oh yeah. One last thing.” Steinbrunner says, walking up to a desk and picking up a file. “Godfather decided to up the in-house security. Everybody gets screened on their way in and out now.”

 

It takes a couple of seconds for the words to register. “Everybody?” Brad says, surprised. There’s thousands of people entering and leaving the headquarters on any given day, so screening them all would require a huge effort.

 

Steinbrunner just hums. “Yeah. They shouldn’t have let you in without the new security certificate, but then, it’s you.” He hands Brad a badge.

 

Brad takes the badge - it’s black and about the size of a business card. He pockets it. “What about private courier services?” He asks.

 

“They’ll have to get accredited. Complete background check, character evaluation, and their bags will be searched upon entry and leaving the building. Caused a huge uproar, I can tell you.” His eyes widen.

 

“Oh my God. You don’t know.” His glee send a wave of nausea to Brad’s stomach, even though he only saw Nate last night. They can’t know.

 

“Please enlighten me, then,” Brad says, lightly, tempted to lean against the table, but deciding not to. His body is getting more and more heavy, and he needs to focus on standing up straight more than he should.

 

“They got Summer.”

 

Summer. Brad tries to pin a name to the face - there’s hundreds of officers in this place alone, but as in every incestious family, everybody knows everybody.

 

“The guy who took over the Kaizen evacuation?” Brad says.

 

Steinbrunner nods. “Turns out he was smuggling out food stamps and selling them on the black market.” He laughs.

 

Brad is not surprised - their job comes with significant privileges, and there have been rumours about officers selling food stamps. Still, Summer must have been pretty stupid to continue his operations throughout the increased security measures.

 

“How did they get him?” Brad asks.

 

“Got the stamps from a buddy in provision control, then smuggled them out via a private courier. Caused a huge chaos in the hall when they arrested him - stamps went flying everywhere and the civilians were trying to get some. They were pushing each other out of the way to get there first. They were at it like animals.” Steinbrunner laughs again, and Brad can’t help but feel disgusted.

 

“On the other hand, it’s no wonder they were eager to get more stamps. The governor just announced a reduction of the food allocation.”

 

“Why?” They should have enough food, Brad thinks. Hopes. If this turns into a humanitarian catastrophe, things will get much more difficult.

 

“Godfather thinks - and the Governor agrees - that the civilian population hasn’t fought enough against outside influences. So they’ll starve them a bit until they give us the bad apples.” Again, Steinbrunner laughs. “I tell you, it’s good to be an Officer right now.”

 

Brad just smiles a what he hopes is an indulgent smile. He is at a loss of words and his mind is racing. Nate didn’t mention this. Instead, he brought Brad food. Brad has no idea how many food stamps a bowl of Chicken Soup is worth, but he would be willing to bet it doesn’t come cheap.

 

“What else did they announce?” Brad asks, knowing that it’s never just one thing. The Reich doesn’t do half-measures.

 

“What?” Steinbrunner seems confused by Brad’s interest.

 

“What else? I need to know what happened while I was gone.”

 

“Oh. Well, there’s random frisking, they arrested a couple of degenerates and they put a stop on all civilian travel permits.”

 

So they basically incarcerated everybody in the city, reduced the food available and added some humiliation to make things even more interesting, Brad thinks. It’s like they want to test how far they can take things. How much the people are willing to take. It doesn’t escape Brad that all these measures amount basically to a state of war. Godfather may say it’s because of Brad, but Brad realizes that this is just another way to prepare for the war that’s coming, a convenient excuse to get the civilians used to the sacrifices they will have to make.

 

Brad just nods. “Seems like you guys did a good job while I was gone.”

 

Steinbrunner almost blushes. “Thank you, Colbert. As I said, now that you are back, these guys don’t stand a chance.”

 

For a second, Brad is shocked by Steinbrunner’s naivete - how can he not see the signs? Then Brad remembers that he would be in the same boat if it weren’t for Godfather’s trust in him. He notices he’s shaking from the effort of standing, and his shoulder is still radiating pain.

 

“I sure hope so,” he says, clipped. “I’ll be in my office.” He nods to the guards on the door on the way out. He needs to talk to Mike and Nate, but using the phone in his office is out of the question. In fact, it might be better if Nate didn’t visit him at work anymore at all. He ponders this as he slowly walks back to his office, ignoring the stares he is getting from everybody he is passing.

 

____________

 

“Nate, wake up.” Mike’s gentle voice drifts into Nate’s room. “You gotta go to work.”

 

Nate grunts in reply. Mike didn’t wake him up - he didn’t sleep properly last night, thinking about Brad, about food rations, about their fight that doesn’t seem to lead anywhere.

 

“Nate, you really have to get up.” Mike interrupts his thoughts, and Nate throws back the stitched-up blanket and gets out of bed.

 

He picks up some clothes as he’s wandering about in his room and heads to the bathroom before Mike interrupts him.

 

“There’s no water.” He sounds apologetic, even though Nate knows it’s none of his fault.

 

“Not even cold one?” Nate pleads. Warm showers are a thing of the past, but still. A shower would be nice. Nate is sure he still reeks of yesterday’s sweat. He wrinkles his nose as Mike shakes his head.

 

“Sorry, bud. No water at all. Not like you had time anyways.”

 

Nate curses as he glances at the clock on the wall. He is cutting it close.

 

“There’s some bread for breakfast left, better eat it before it gets bad.” Mike says, heading into the kitchen.

 

It’s already stale, Nate thinks. It’s just a matter of not letting it get mouldy, a losing battle in this constantly cold and humid apartment. Still.

 

“Nah, it’s fine. You can have it. I’m not hungry.” Nate says, putting his vest on and grabbing his bag.

 

Mike looks at him and says “Don’t shit me, boy. I know you haven’t had dinner yesterday.”

 

Nate just nods, letting it go. Sometimes it’s easier to just go along with what Mike says.

 

“Besides, Colbert will get on my ass though if I don’t feed you properly. Take the damn bread, Nate.” Mike says, handing a brown bag to Nate. “And eat it.” He looks at him, pointedly, and Nate gives in.

 

Nate is already out of the door when Mike calls him back. “Oh, Ray called and said to take Hitler, not Goebbels.”

 

Nate curses. Taking Goebbels bridge means an additional 10 minutes of commute, time he barely has. But if Ray says so, he will have to do so.

 

He barely makes it. He was not the only one to avoid Hitler bridge, so Goebbels was completely swamped, and Nate narrowly avoided getting hit by a car not only once, but twice. Still, he made it before the morning briefing starts, even though he’s the last person to enter the briefing room.

 

Sixta looks at him disappointedly, but Nate ignores his glare and sits down on a seat in the back.

 

“Aright, fellas, let’s start.” Sixta’s booming voice gives Nate a headache already.

 

“Thems police tolds us to avoids anything beneath Grand St.” He pauses, and Nate’s mind starts racing. That’s basically the entire Lower East Side. What is going on.

 

“Sir, what is going on?” a voice asks - Nate doesn’t know the guy’s name, not with the fluctuation in his job. Looking around, he realizes he barely knows any of the faces anymore. Nate never tried to strike up friendships at work - too dangerous, and nobody really reaches out anyways - but he hardly knows anybody here.

 

“That’s not of interest to you, young man.” Sixta says, patronizing, and Nate figures that means he doesn’t know himself. He wonders if Brad knows. His stomach reminds him again that thinking of Brad is perhaps not the best thing to do right now, so he focuses on the brief instead.

 

“Avoids it at all cost. We won’t be delivering anything there until it’s settled.”

 

Briefly, Nate thinks about how many times he actually delivered to the Lower East Side in his four years as messenger. Perhaps five times total? It’s mostly immigrants and refugees who live there, nobody who would really need a same-day-delivery service.

 

Nate sighs. It’s all becoming clearer now.

 

“Also, thems laws have changed. You’ll now work 13 hour shifts, six days a week.” Sixta is basically gleaming as the room erupts in subdued groans. That’s an additional hour per day, Nate thinks. They’ll work us to death.

 

His mood doesn’t improve when he sees his delivery list for today. No Brad, but plenty of deliveries all around town. He’ll be on his bike dodging traffic all day long. At least it stopped raining.

 

His first stop is down by the Stock Exchange. He enters the bank building, registering the police vans stationed outside, but not thinking twice about them. They have become a familiar sight in the past few weeks, popping up everywhere around town and disappearing just as quickly.

 

He curses as he sees the “please use the stairs” sign on the elevator. The buzzing lights mean they still have electricity, the sign means they don’t have the money to pay for much of it. Nate makes his way up to the tenth floor, thanking a God he doesn’t believe in that it’s only ten floors. Could be worse.

 

As he enters the floor, he immediately notices something is wrong. Nobody makes eye contact, something Nate is familiar with, but today, the workers seem downright petrified as they are busily bending over their desks.

 

The source of their terror becomes apparent as Nate turns around a corner - there’s a group of Secret Police Officers crowding around a desk. Nate curses. That’s the desk he needs to deliver this to.

 

He checks his bag to see if his ID card is there - he’d be well and truly fucked if he left the apartment this morning without it. It’s there, right next to the package. Nate squares his shoulders and walks down the hallway towards the men in the black trenchcoats.

 

“Excuse me, sir?” Nate tries to keep his voice deferent and polite, hoping this guy doesn’t adhere to the “arrest everybody you can” group of policemen. He could - it would be in his right to take Nate in for questioning, even though he’s only delivering the package.

 

Of course, this would also mean getting fired because he technically didn’t deliver the message and left his job without official permission, so there’s that. Fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t, Nate thinks as one of the guys turns around.

 

“Yes?”

 

It’s a promising start - at least he didn’t arrest Nate right away. Keeping eye contact, Nate reaches into his bag and pulls out the package.

 

“I have a package to deliver to a Mr Agel?” He turns the package so that the officer can see the address label.

 

To his surprise, the policemen erupts in laughter. “Well, that won’t be possible, I’m afraid, but I think I can help you out.” He takes the package, but doesn’t open it.

 

After a second, he notices Nate is still standing there. “Anything else, boy? Nothing to see here, and if you are one of them who stick around...”

 

Nate interrupts him. “No, not at all, sir.” The politeness is like acid in his mouth. He’d love to punch this guy for his arrogance, punch him for all the little injustices he inflicted on Nate and everybody else, keep punching him until Nate’s fist turns heavy. Instead, he swallows his pride and says “You need to sign the slip, sir.”

 

“The slip.” The officer looks at Nate like a particularly uninteresting piece of vermin.

 

“Yes, I do need to submit a slip to prove the package didn’t get lost.” Nate pulls out his notebook and shows the form to the officer.

 

“Show me your ID, kid.” The officer says instead, and Nate sighs. This is what he wanted to avoid.

 

“Sure, sir.” He hands his ID over and watches as the officer looks at it.

 

“You’re 25?” he says, looking up at Nate who expected this question.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Good genes, then.” the officer says, still looking at the ID, and Nate wonders what the hell he is looking at exactly.

 

“I guess so, sir.”

 

“Aryan, then?”

 

“American, I’m afraid.” Nate says, evenly and long used to the anger that swells up every time he gets asked that question.

 

“Huh. That explains the job, then.” The officer lazily hands the ID to Nate as he turns around.

 

“Sir, the slip?” Nate would rather not ask, but he knows Sixta will know no mercy if Nate turns up with an unsigned slip. He’d fire Nate without second thought, and that’s something Nate cannot allow. Nate needs this job, not just for the cover, but also for the food stamps, plain and simple. He needs this job to keep himself and Mike alive.

 

“Of course.” The guy takes Nate’s notebook and lazily scrawls a signature on it. “We might have questions for you, kid. Please keep yourself available.”

 

Not like I have a choice, Nate thinks. You stopped giving out travel permits long ago, where do you expect me to go?

 

“Of course.” Nate takes the notebook back and nods at the officer before leaving.

 

Nate’s day doesn’t get much better after that. He keeps running into patrols, which means getting off his bike, showing his ID, showing the package, answer any questions, and then getting back on his bike and making up for the time lost.

 

He does have time for a short lunch break though - fifteen minutes on a bench, trying to wash down his last bit of bread that Mike gave him this morning with water from a nearby fountain. He has to leave as another patrol chases everybody out of the park, calling them “useless vermin” and worse.

 

All of this - Brad’s radio silence, the hunger, the patrols and the bullying - don’t even make him angry, Nate realizes. He’s too tired to be angry. He doesn’t have the energy anymore to rage and fight. Part of him knows that’s exactly the point of the policies - work them so hard they don’t even think about fighting anymore - but he doesn’t care. It works on him.

 

He shakes his head. He needs to get out of his slump and leave those thoughts behind. They are of no use, and won’t help anybody.

 

Speaking of. He looks at his watch and realizes it’s time for his final delivery of the day.

 

##### -

 

Nate tries not to pay too much attention to the anticipation that’s building in his stomach. He slowly walks down the hallway to Brad’s apartment, enjoying how plush the carpet feels under his feet. The heating in the building is on, not enough to chase the chill out of Nate’s bones, but friendly nevertheless.

 

He slowly knocks on Brad’s door, almost tempted to waste as much time as possible. This is the best part of Nate’s day, and he doesn’t want it to start yet, because it will be over too quickly. It always is.

 

An eternity passes before Nate can hear footsteps on the other side of the door. His heart jumps - it might not be Brad, he reminds himself, it might just be police - but when the door opens, it’s Brad, ridiculously well-looking in his jeans and a shirt that’s so white it has to be new and wearing a smile that Nate can’t help but reciprocate.

 

“Come in,” Brad says, softly, and Nate doesn’t have to be told twice.

 

Brad’s apartment is warmer than the hallway, and Nate slowly exhales. Brad seems to be okay - still cradling his left arm, but otherwise unharmed. Nate relaxes incrementally. This is okay. Brad is okay.

 

They walk into Brad’s kitchen, where a pot of stew is radiating a delicious smell.

 

Brad opens a drawer and takes out two plates. “Make yourself at home, Nate.”

 

Nate is too tired to put up a fight. The warmth of the apartment, the smell of food, and the knowledge that Brad is okay seem to have pulled all energy out of him. He puts his bag down, sits down on a chair and breathes out slowly.

 

Brad puts a plate of steaming stew in front of him. “Eat, Nate. We’ll talk after.” He sits down on the chair opposite Nate, and nods at him. “Go ahead.”

 

“Thanks,” Nate mumbles, taking a deep breath in. The smell is delicious. He starts eating, and realizes it tastes as good as it smells.

 

Brad is quiet, only gets up to give Nate a second portion. He waves Nate off when he protests. “I have enough, Nate.” He sounds slightly guilty about it.

 

By the time he finishes his second portion, Nate feels much better.

 

“There’s more for you to take home,” Brad says, pulling Nate out of his thoughts.

 

Nate shakes his head to clear it. “Thanks, but I don’t think that’ll be a good idea.”

 

Brad looks at him, clearly not understanding, and Nate elaborates. “There’s a decent chance I will run into a patrol on my way home, and I won’t be able to explain where I got my hands on meat for the stew.”

 

Brad just nods stiffly, and Nate hates the distance this has created between them. “Thanks, though,” he says, as if that would make a difference. It’s all he can say, but it’s clearly not enough.

 

Again, Brad nods in reply but doesn’t say a word.

 

Seconds pass by before Brad speaks up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Nate has no idea what Brad refers to. This feels weird - normally, he gets Brad, gets what he means, but this conversation somehow feels off. Too many things Nate doesn’t allow himself to say.

 

“Tell you what?”

 

“About the food,” Brad says, hesitantly, and a spark of anger ignites in Nate.

 

“It somehow didn’t seem like the right timing. ‘Hey, nevermind you just got shot and almost killed, let me bitch to you about how hard I have it.’” Nate parrots, getting up from the table.

 

Brad seems to be taken aback by Nate’s anger. “Nate.” He gets up too, trailing Nate into the living room. He grabs Nate’s sleeve. “Nate,” he repeats, slowly.

 

Nate takes a deep breath and turns around, looking at Brad.

 

“You should have told me,” Brad says quietly. “I would have wanted to know.”

 

Nate just shakes his head. “Nothing you can do, Brad. Nothing anyone of us can do.” He hates the bitter sound in his own voice, but can’t help it.

 

“What do you mean?” Brad hasn’t let go of his sleeve, Nate suddenly realizes. He doesn’t try to move away. Brad’s standing close to him, yet Nate is tempted to yank him closer still. Brad’s thumb is touching Nate’s wrist, stroking it gently.

 

“How are we ever going to win, Brad?” he says, the quiet words echoing in the room. “They are a fucking machine. They own this place. And us. They don’t give a fuck about us. All we managed to do is to annoy them, but we can’t bring them down, not with what we have.” His voice has gotten progressively louder until he is yelling. He suddenly stops, eyes wide and shocked.

 

“Don’t worry about my neighbours,” Brad says. “I don’t have any.” He lets go of Nate’s sleeve, and before Nate can feel disappointed, he takes Nate’s elbow and guides him to the couch.

 

“Sit down.” Brad says sternly, and Nate wants to protest. He needs to get going. He probably lost enough time already with the food, and he needs to get home to Mike. “Don’t make me use my officer voice.”

 

Nate gives in, because he always does when it comes to Brad. He sits down, aware of his dirty pants on the pristine couch. What a stupid thought to have, Nate thinks.

 

Brad still holds Nate’s elbow, looking down at it as if he wasn’t sure what he was doing. He takes a deep breath before speaking.

 

“I trust you.” Before Nate can speak up, Brad continues. “I trust you so I need you to trust me on this.” He pauses for a moment. “I promise you we will bring them down. I don’t know how yet, but we will.” He looks at Nate with his piercing blue eyes, and Nate feels pinned down. “I promise you, we will stop them.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his voice, and Nate wants to believe him.

 

“Okay,” he says. Nate is tired of this anger, tired of the rage, tired of feeling tired. “I’ll just trust you on this.”

 

Brad smiles, without any trace of humour. “We’ll bring them down.” His smile slowly changes, until it is downright feral. “We’ll make them bleed.” For a second, the brutality in this man shocks Nate. He knows Brad. Brad who cares and jokes and makes sure Nate is okay. However, there’s this other side in Brad - that’s the guy who smiles down at Nate from posters, the result of merciless honing of his brutality. If he wants anybody on his side, Nate suddenly realizes, it’s Brad. All of Brad.

 

Nate nods.

 

“Speaking of.” He sits up, not shrugging off Brad’s hand. “How’s your arm?”

 

Brad rolls his shoulder. “It’s alright.” He pauses for a moment. “Still hurts, though.” He seems almost ashamed to say that, as if admitting it caused him physical pain.

 

“You could take it easy, you know.” Nate replies. “Stay at home, read all day, eat all that amazing food you have…”

 

Brad smiles. “This is not the worst I’ve ever been injured. I’ll save that home vacation for the really bad case.”

 

“Brad, you were shot,” Nate says pointedly. “For most people, that would be plenty reason to rest.”

 

“Good thing I’m not most people,” Brad says evenly. “I’ve been trained to ignore the pain. Seriously, it’s alright, Nate.”

 

A wave of anger flares up in Nate. He read up on Brad’s training – the Academy, the various schools – and he knows that this man has been put through hell on earth. And while he spent years wishing his training would be too hard, that Brad would turn out to not be strong enough after all (it comes back to him some days, that damned quote that killed Arthur), Nate finds himself shamefully glad for it, now. He doesn’t quite know what to make of his distaste at the idea of Brad being hurt, doesn’t quite know how to handle how angry it makes him feel. He shakes his head. No use thinking about it now.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid to make it worse,” he says instead.

 

Brad nods. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

They sit in silence until the ring of the telephone erupts. Brad gets up to answer it.

 

“Yes?” Brad rolls his eyes, and Nate’s suspicion of who the caller is is proven correct when Brad continues.

 

“I don’t know how often your mother dropped you as a kid, but it clearly wasn’t enough.” Nate snorts and Brad turns to him, lifting an eyebrow questioningly. Nate just shakes his head.

 

“Yes, he’s here,” Brad says slowly, still looking at Nate and listening to Ray’s reply.

 

“Okay.” Brad waits for a second. “Yes, I will make sure.” Pause. “Ray, as always, the depravity of your thoughts insult me. Goodbye.”

 

Brad hangs up the phone and turns back to Nate. “That was Ray.” Nate wonders if Brad knows he is smiling fondly. “He said there’ll be a curfew, starting tonight at nine.” They both look at the clock in the kitchen.

 

Nate curses. Thirty minutes. That’s cutting it close to getting home. “That’s the first time I heard about it.” He gets up and walks back to the kitchen, Brad following him.

 

“Just announced it. They’ll use it as a way to arrest random citizens.” Brad says. “Sorry, Nate.”

 

Nate turns around, bag in his hand. “What for?” He digs through his bag, trying to find the damn slip for Brad to sign.

 

“I didn’t know. I’m not involved in any of the Secret Police policies. I could..” Nate interrupts him.

 

“You’ll do no such thing, Brad. It’s fine. We got Ray. We need you to stay safe.” He finally finds the slip and shoves it at Brad. “Sign it.”

 

Brad just looks at him, looks at the slip, and smiles slowly. “Ah, paperwork.”

 

Nate sighs. “I know. The bane of my existence, you know.” He watches Brad sign the slip and hand it back to him. “Okay. I gotta run.” He puts on his jacket and walks to the door.

 

“Nate.” Brad calls out after him, stopping Nate in his tracks.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Just … Let me know if you get home okay?” Brad says quietly.

 

“Okay,” Nate says, just as quietly.

  
____________

 

“War” is such an insidious word. It’s short and brutal like a punch, spoken before you can hear it and over before you can catch up, the sound of it gone in the air leaving behind ripples in your mind, erratic aftershocks from a lone syllable with more power than ten thousand songs. It echoes in Brad’s head all day long, a mantra, a promise, a threat. It wakes him up in the morning, rides along with him to work, pats his shoulder for every salute he gets, curls around his muscles as he trains and trains and trains some more.

 

Brad gets used to it. He can’t ignore it, can’t deny it, so he does what he’s always done: he makes do. The inside of his head might be quiet, it has never been peaceful. If the prospect of the inevitable battle to come keeps looming at the forefront of his mind, a rolling thunderstorm seeking to distract him, it can take a number.

 

He becomes so detached from it that it takes days, weeks really, before Brad realises that something does ease the turmoil between his ears. He’s been sitting at his desk for barely five minutes, hair still damp from a thirty second shower that did very little to wash away four hours of running and sparring and staying very still and running and sparring again. Training for war.

 

His shoulder is okay now, and in ten minutes he will be in Godfather’s office for yet another briefing about war. He received a new uniform, altered to allow more stretch, its fabric stronger but lighter, all the better to fight in. For war. It’s in his briefings, in his trainings, in his food, in his thoughts, in his dreams, and it gets louder and louder. Brad sits and breathes and feels like everything in him is already being claimed by this war but for the blood in his veins. That, he thinks wryly, will have to wait until he stands on the actual battlefield.

 

And then there’s footsteps. That’s all it takes. Footsteps in the hall coming closer, and it goes quiet inside Brad’s head as his attention focuses on the regular sounds of feet hitting the ground and stopping at his door.

 

“Come in.”

 

The words are out almost before he hears a knock. He stands as the door opens and Nate walks in.

 

“Hauptscharführer,” Nate greets, voice and face and eyes and posture perfect in their cordial indifference.

 

Brad walks around him to the door and closes it. He turns around just in time to catch the transformation; Nate’s shoulders loosen, his neck tilts forward a fraction. His brows furrow in the constantly worried expression that he’s been wearing for weeks now. But his eyes warm when Brad catches them with his own, and the corners of his mouth soften.

 

“Brad,” he breathes, and Brad would hear his name coming from Nate’s lips if he was a continent away.

 

“Is something wrong?” Brad asks, closing the distance between them until he stands close enough that Nate has to look up to hold his gaze.

 

Nate snorts, his lips twisting, and he stares at Brad pointedly from under a raised eyebrow. He isn’t much shorter than Brad at all.

 

Brad bites off a sigh but tilts his head, self-deprecating. It was a stupid question, but still. “You’re early,” he says.

 

Nate nods. Contained as it is, the movement stirs the air between them enough that Brad feels it on his chin, his nose, his lips. He should probably step back.

 

“Last minute change of schedule that _your_ office asked for,” Nate says, and there’s a question there, in the way his eyes sweep over Brad’s face, the crease between his brows deepening slightly. Nate doesn’t step back either.

 

“I have a meeting with Ferrando,” Brad says. “It seems he’s expecting it to run longer than anticipated.” He leaves it at that, reluctant to expand even though he knows both he and Nate can draw their own conclusions. Long meetings mean news, and these days the news is seldom good.

 

Nate bites his lower lip, nods again, taking this in.

 

“I’ll tell you as soon as I can,” Brad says, leaning in. This close he could count Nate’s eyelashes, the freckles over the bridge of his nose. Nate still doesn’t step back. Brad’s breath catches.

 

“Don’t put yourself at risk. I’ll be back tomorrow, you can tell me then.” Nate’s voice comes out deceptively casual, but Brad can see how his jaw tightens around the words, how his gaze goes from concerned to determined. They don’t have the luxury of waiting for information, but if Nate wants to assure Brad that he will come back, will keep coming back, Brad can allow them both the illusion. In the grand scheme of things it’s a small kindness, and he is selfish enough to want to hold on to it.

 

Nate looks at him for a beat longer, then he blinks, swallows, dips his head down.

 

“Do you have anything for me to deliver?” he asks. His gaze, once it wanders back to Brad’s face, is inscrutable.

 

“Not today,” Brad answers, leaning back and away, breath coming easier as he does.

 

Nate nods, and Brad watches as his chest rises and falls with one big, silent breath.

 

“I’ll be heading out then,” Nate says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Parting words make up more of their conversations than they should, if twenty second exchanges whispered behind closed doors can even be called conversations, but today Brad resents them. He doesn’t want Nate to go. He wants Nate to stay. He wants the outside world to stop for a minute, an hour. He wants to sit Nate down and ask him how he is and for Nate to just talk to him.

 

“See you tomorrow,” he says, and watches the curve of Nate’s shoulder before he closes the door shut behind him, listens to his footsteps vanish down the hall, breathes in the faint traces of Nate in the air where he stood.

 

-

 

The briefing lasts four and a half hours.

 

The news is: in ninety days, Brad will lead the first official assault on the Japanese Pacific States. The war finally has an opening date. But that’s not even the worst thing to happen today.

 

##### ____________

 

“Any plans tonight, Colbert?” Godfather asks as he wanders into Brad’s office, and Brad thinks of Nate and how to tell him that war now comes with a date, that Brad will leave, and probably die. Brad swallows the panic that sets in at the thought of leaving. He’ll find a way. He can’t leave Nate behind, can’t let this war happen.  

 

Instead, he says, “Nothing that I can’t change, sir.”

 

“Good. Meet me in the lobby at seven. I want you to meet some friends of mine.” Godfather leaves without waiting for a reply. Brad watches his retreating back knowing that there was no other reply than yes to give anyway.

 

At the very least, it gives him a reason to delay telling Nate about the war.

 

-

 

Godfather’s friends, it turns out, are as important as they are disgusting.

 

Brad is not surprised when Godfather brings them to one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. He is surprised, however, when they don’t enter through the main entrance, but use a hidden side door that he never even noticed on his previous visits to the place.

 

The hall they step into is dimly lit, a narrow but luxurious space of plush, deep crimson carpet and dark wood panelled walls. Golden frames hang on both sides of their little party of two, old faces peering at them from the canvas. Brad wouldn’t be able to name every portrait, but he recognizes enough of them to realize that this is what has been kept from him all this time. This is where Godfather has been waiting to take him, this is what Pappy’s bullet has won him: a ticket to where the rich and filthy congregate and where decisions are made.

 

A few steps ahead of him, Godfather smiles at Brad’s silent observation, mistaking it for respect. He looks proud of himself, and Brad wonders for a second what he would have done if he’d ever found himself invited here without having met Poke. It isn’t a pleasant thought. He falls in step

when Godfather gestures for him to follow.

 

The combined smell of cigars and alcohol hits Brad as soon as they reach the small back room. Godfather enters first, and Brad, as always, follows. It is hot and loud inside, the air thick and draping itself over him like a humid, smoky coat, made heavy by the bass of the music and the sound of dozens of voices feeding dozens more conversations. He feels it like fingers stroking the underside of his jaw, brushing over his lips, down his chest, splaying over his hips, all but whispering _you’re one of us now_. Brad stays very still, lets his eyes take in the rest of it.

 

The room is filled with people that, he can tell at a glance, can be sorted into two categories: old, overweight guys, and young, very pretty girls. The men are in various states of undress – nothing too shocking, an open shirt here, a popped pants button there, ties all but forgotten and thrown over random furniture – but what clothes remain are worth more than Brad’s entire wardrobe.

 

Everything glitters gold or absorbs light with an ancient sort of opulence. From the chandelier to the bottles, to the very laces on the men’s shoes, it all says It Is Us Who Rule The World.

 

Brad doubts the girls were wearing much to begin with. Then again, he knows why they’re here, and it’s not because they’re rich and powerful. Quite the opposite, in fact.

 

For all that Brad somehow expected it, he almost gags at the sight and smell and sound and feel of it.

 

Godfather turns around and yells over the sound of the band: “Welcome to the Club, Colbert,” and hands Brad a glass of whisky.

 

Instead of replying - which would be hard with the volume of music drowning out everything - Brad just nods and lifts his glass. His commander does the same, and Brad drinks. The whisky is excellent, better than Brad can recall every having. His lips stretch into a wry smile.

 

A young man emerges from the crowd, dressed impeccably in a suit that has to be bespoke, claps Godfather on the shoulder and says, “I see you finally brought your pet, Ferrando.”

 

A couple of months ago, back when Brad came back to New York, Godfather’s attaché forgot to bring his uniform to the dry cleaner. Without saying a word, Godfather had hit him so ferociously that the man had to go to the hospital.

 

The fact that Godfather smiles instead of throwing a punch tells Brad a lot about the importance of this guy. Indeed, Godfather smiles when he says: “Killinger, meet Hauptscharführer Colbert. Colbert, this is Monsignor Killinger. He leads the secret police.”

 

Colbert nods and extends his hand, which Killinger readily takes and shakes.

 

“Pleased to meet you, Colbert,” he says, and immediately leans in with a conspiratorial smile. “Let me tell you, your little mishap made my life a lot easier, so thanks for that.” Killinger laughs as he leans away, and Brad has no inclination to join him. Instead, he smiles sharply, and says: “Anything I can do to help.”

 

Again, Killinger laughs. “You are as good as they say, Iceman. Come with me, I want to introduce you to a couple of people you might like.”

 

Brad highly doubts that, but goes with Killinger nevertheless. There is a blur of introductions and cheers and toasts to Brad and his shoulder. Everybody has heard of him, which doesn’t surprise him. Brad, however, has never heard of most of the people in this room.

 

“Don’t feel bad about not knowing us”, one of them – Aldrich, the secretary of communication security, says as he bends over to Brad. For a split second, Brad thinks about Ray and how this hick manages to run circles around this fat, slightly drunk guy who is now fondly patting the ass of the girl sitting on his lap.

 

“That’s the point of the whole thing,” Aldrich continues before Killinger adds “We decided we prefer clandestine power over public adoration.”

 

“Especially since public adoration is a very finicky thing, even with the means of propaganda we have. One day they love you, the next day they want your head on a silver platter.” The group erupts in laughter, and Brad smiles silently.

 

“I guess I know all about that,” he says evenly, and they erupt in howling laughter again.

 

“Indeed, Colbert,” Aldrich says. “You, my boy, are a wonder. How they love you!” He shakes his head in happy disbelief. “We’ll have to thank Schmidt again someday. You should have seen the reactions to the shooting,” he continues, eyes on Brad’s. “We couldn’t have orchestrated it better ourselves. Such strong feelings! Brad Colbert attacked! Our very own child, shot by those disgusting subhumans.” His voice drops and turns cold, the delight on his face swiped away to leave something inscrutable, and for a moment, Brad sees how absolutely terrifying this man can be. He doesn’t drop his gaze.

 

“Hey, we should get Colbert a reward,” Killinger says, refocusing the group’s attention as he waves at one of the girls passing by. “For taking a hit.” The girl who approaches the table is a willowy brunette wearing nothing more than a complicated lace ensemble and an enigmatic smile, and Brad is suddenly, viscerally petrified.

 

“I don’t think that’s necessary, gents, though I do appreciate the sentiment very much,” he says, trying to sound both arrogant and absolutely confident.

 

Aldrich insists, however. “Nonsense. I haven’t heard of a single ailment that couldn’t be made better by having a pretty little thing writhing on your lap.” He motions at the girl to sit on Brad’s lap, and what the fuck is Brad supposed to do here. He watches passively as the girl sits down obediently and proceeds to shift and roll her hips, ostensibly to make herself comfortable. Her weight is so light Brad barely feels it at all. She keeps it up for a minute before settling, waiting for him, waiting for them.

 

“There’s a room in the back if you want to use her,” Killinger says so absolutely joyful that it takes a second for the words to click in Brad’s mind.

 

Brad has been in situations like this before, but he has never felt worse than he does now. Killinger and Aldrich both look at him, expectant, and Brad decides there’s only one way to end this without losing his face.

 

“As much as I would like to,” and with this he squeezes the girl’s ass, mentally apologizing, “I am under strict orders to refrain from any strenuous physical activity as any undue stress would only aggrevate my injury and delay my healing process. And I cannot allow that.”

 

The girl, throughout the ordeal, hasn’t expressed anything, be it favorable or not. Brad can smell her perfume, a faint smell of vanilla, and wonders how she ended up here, what she thinks of all this.

 

Killinger however, seems to get the point. “I do see you are a professional, Colbert. Cheers to you.”

 

He doesn’t share the same concern for himself, though, and extends his arm to grab the thigh of another girl walking by. She giggles as he drags her down to sit on his lap and grips her waist with both hands to have her grind down on him. Once she gets a good rhythm going, he leans back in his seat, spreads his leg, and lifts his glass in another toast. Both Brad and Aldrich join him. Brad’s more than half full glass is empty when he puts it down.

 

“I see you’re having fun,” a voice rasps at Brad’s ear before Godfather walks up to the table and sits down in an empty armchair. He doesn’t comment on the girl sitting in Colbert’s lap, just pours himself another drink from the bottle sitting on the table, and refills Brad’s glass.

 

“So, how do you like him?” he asks Killinger and Aldrich.

 

“Oh, he’s everything you said and more,” Aldrich says, looking at Brad. “A real hero of the Reich.”

 

Killinger offers a thumb up, his other hand somewhere Brad is studiously not looking. The girl on Killinger’s lap gasps sharply, brows furrowed, but keeps her hips moving.

 

Brad smiles, takes a sip, and marvels at how wrong this all feels. Half a year ago, he’d given anything to be here, acknowledged and revered by the most important people of the Reich. Now here he is, sitting on a slightly sticky seat, with a whore straddling his uninterested crotch, another one possibly about to get fucked in front of him, an excellent whisky in his hand, and all he wishes is to be home.

 

Not just home, but with Nate, a treacherous voice in his mind says, and Brad takes a deep breath. Not here, not now. Nate doesn’t belong here, not even in thoughts. This is the disgusting side of Brad’s job, and he’ll willingly do it if it means keeping Nate safe.

 

“Girls, leave us alone,” Aldrich says.

 

Killinger pouts, busy hand moving back to the girl’s waist to squeeze once more before almost throwing her off him. She goes willingly, as do all the others. Brad’s girl smiles at him as she stands up and walks away. Brad cannot see any trace of relief on their faces, and wonders if there’s anybody in this town who doesn’t wear a mask.

 

“We have business to discuss,” Aldrich continues. “Let me just call Beckman over. He’ll want to be part of this.”

 

Obediently, Brad moves over as soon as a tall, lean guy approaches. The guy motions at Brad to stop and says, “I’d rather be standing.” Brad has to admit that it’s a good policy to adapt, if only to avoid girls being dumped in your lap.

 

The guy extends his hand and shakes Brad’s. “Beckman. I’m in charge of the planning of Operation Kakudmi.”

 

Godfather clears his throat. “I haven’t told Colbert about the details, it’s one of the reasons I brought him tonight. Why don’t you go ahead, Beckman?”

 

Beckman just nods. “This will be news to some of the others as well.”

 

Killinger and Aldrich lean in, and Brad can see that Aldrich has to focus on not falling over. His face is flushed red and Brad cannot wonder how that guy made such a rookie mistake. Getting drunk around partei guys is never a good idea, not even and especially not when you’re their equal.

 

“There’s two parts to it, really,” Beckman starts, slowly as if to gather his thoughts into a coherent message. “First part is draining the ocean.”

 

Killinger’s face lights up at the words and Beckman nods. “Killinger is responsible for that, so he can probably tell you more about it.”

 

“Draining the ocean?” Brad repeats, questioningly, and wonders why on earth they can never have any normal operation names. Their affinity for the dramatic is starting to grate on his nerves.

 

“You know how to catch fish, Colbert?” Killinger asks.

 

Yes, Brad wants to say. I know about a dozen ways to catch fish, with my bare hands, with tools I made, because I’ve been out there in the wild, with nothing more than a toothbrush and some string, because people like you sent me there. Instead, he swallows his disgust and says, because he knows his line, “You drain the ocean.”

 

Killinger laughs mirthlessly. “Exactly. And that’s how we are going to find those leeches.” They all raise their glasses, Killinger, Aldrich, Godfather, and Beckman, and Brad joins them, again sipping instead of drowning his glass like Aldrich.

 

“We are going to cleanse this city and the entire Reich,” Godfather says, absolute conviction in his tone. “We will not let them get away with shooting you.” He looks at Brad, utter devotion in his eyes, and Brad nods solemnly, even though his heart is racing. They kicked a hornet’s nest, Brad realizes. The Reich is not going to waste a crisis, now less than ever.

 

Unaware of the turmoil that’s raging inside Brad, Killinger continues. “We’ll make their lives hell, Colbert.” He grins, and the others join him.

 

Brad says slowly, “Yes, I heard about the limitation of food stamps.” The others chuckle, and the confusion must have shown on Brad’s face, because Killinger shakes his head and explains.

 

“Nah, my friend, this is just the first step. We have an entire plan to drain the city,” he says, dramatically. He is literally on the edge of his seat.

 

“For Christ’s sake, Colbert, just do us a favor and ask so that Killinger here can show off,” Beckman says.

 

“Okay then, what else do you have planned?” Brad asks, making a show of being only casually interested in the plan. It’s a delicate act, and he cannot afford to appear too eager or not enough. He needs to side with Beckman, who seems to be the leader in the group, the one with the biggest responsibilities. At the same time, he cannot afford to alienate any of the others - they are all far more important than he is, and getting all the information he can is vital. Not just for him, but for Nate too. Brad has to find a way to keep Nate alive through all of this.

 

Killinger sits back and spreads his arms. “Okay. First step, as you said, limitation of food stamps. That will make them hungry. And then,” he looks at Brad expectantly, and Brad schools his face into looking vaguely interested, “we make them mad.” Killinger thumps his fists on the table, and the others shriek with laughter.

 

“We have to find those terrorists, and the population right now isn’t willing to give them up. So we’ll give them a couple of incentives.” Killinger counts them on his fingers. “Food stamps for those who give us information about them. Increased secret police work, including random arrests and torture. We’ll increase work hours and cut back on medical services for everybody above 65, unable to work or chronically ill.”

 

Aldrich cuts in. “That’s not to make them angry, it’s just common sense. No use investing resources into useless people.”

 

All of them nod, and Brad never felt this disgusted in his life. They’ll make life hell for everybody. On purpose. Just because they can.

 

“What’s the timeline on this?” Brad asks, though he already knows the answer.

 

“Oh, we already got started,” Killinger says, joy on his face.

 

“Is it working?” Brad inquires.

 

At that question, Killinger moves a bit in his seat and Beckman laughs. “Oh, Colbert. Right to the heart of the matter. I really do like you.”

 

Brad knows he should feel relieved – the better Beckman likes him, the safer he is – but instead, there’s just terror.

 

“We haven’t arrested any confirmed conspirators, no,” Killinger finally says, and Beckman thumps him on the back.

 

“Don’t worry, Killinger, that’ll come. They always give up, sooner or later.” He gives everybody a new round. Once he has filled everybody’s glasses, he raises his. “To phase two, gentlemen.”

 

Killinger, Aldrich, Brad and Godfather raise their glasses. Aldrich downs his whisky readily, but Brad can see Godfather holding back, too. Their eyes meet briefly, and Godfather nods imperceptibly. Brad’s not the only one opting to keep a clear head tonight, it seems.

 

“Phase two,” Beckman repeats, spreading his arms. “This is what you will find particularly interesting, Colbert, and I cannot wait to hear your opinion on this.” He actually sounds honest, and so far, Brad has no reason not to take him seriously.

 

“Make sure you are getting well soon, Brad,” Godfather rasps. “You want to be on top of your game for this, and there’s no way of telling when we’re going to start. This is going to be your war.” He looks at Brad, proudly and smiling, and Brad forces himself to smile too.

 

“To the war, gents,” Beckman says, giving everybody another round, though Brad has barely touched his.

 

“To the war,” they repeat in unison.

 

“I don’t know what Ferrando has told you so far,” Beckman says.

 

“I told him that he’d better get his desert camo ordered, because we are going into the Neutral Zone,” Godfather roars, eliciting another round of laughter from everybody.

 

How is this funny in any way, Brad thinks. This is war. This is to be taken seriously. It’s not just about the human cost and the sacrifices that will be made, it’s a basic lack of respect for his profession that ticks Brad off. He is willing to lay down his life, but he’d like it to be in a meaningful act. Not just some cannon fodder.

 

“You didn’t tell him about the artifact?” Beckman asks, eyebrows raised, and the tone of his voice makes Brad pay very close attention. This is new.

 

“No,” Godfather says, simply. “I thought you wanted to tell him.”

 

You didn’t know whether he’d be okay with me knowing, Brad thinks, but doesn’t let it show on his face.

 

“Alright then. Colbert, what I am about to tell you is top-secret. Understood?” Beckman says, leaning in slightly. Brad looks at their group – Killinger is staring at the top of the table as if it held the answers to the secrets of the universe, Aldrich seems to be asleep, judging by his snoring, and he suddenly wonders whether this is really the best venue to share top secret information.

 

Instead, he just nods and waits. Beckman smiles, and Brad has been told before his smile can be terrifying, but he also knows his smile is nothing compared to Beckman’s. Beckman’s smile makes even Brad’s bones rattle.

 

“Colbert, you are a skilled tactician.” Again, Brad just nods. There’s no reason to embellish it.  He has been through the best tactical schools the Reich can provide, and he came out on top.

 

“You surely wondered why we are so eager to get this war started now, instead of clandestinely preparing it, giving us a bit more time to do this correctly.”

 

“Indeed, I have,” Brad agrees, truthfully. They are not about to be attacked - they will strike first, so why not wait until everything is in order? Their efforts seem to be rushed, and Brad knows that rushing things lead to mistakes. Mistakes in war are deadly.

 

“Well, the reason is, we don’t have to do it correctly.” Beckman looks at him.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Brad says, because he doesn’t. Why hurry this? They’ll be at a disadvantage they don’t need and could avoid.

 

“That’s what I thought, too,” Godfather says. “It doesn’t make sense.”

 

Beckman laughs. “Colbert - what if I told you that we had access to an entirely new generation of weapons whose effectiveness you could have never even dreamt of?”

 

“I would ask where you got them from, Beckman, because I know our armory’s content, and there’s no magic, war solving weapon in there.” Brad says, evenly, not quite sure where this is leading.

 

Again, Beckman laughs. “A man of my taste, Colbert. I agree - we don’t have the weapons right now. But we will have them.”

 

“You’re confusing him, Beckman. Just say it,” Godfather rasps, and Brad couldn’t agree more.

 

“The reason we are moving forward with the war now is because we found these things” Beckman says in this casual way that says _this is the important part_.

 

“Things,” Brad repeats, slowly, not sure where this is all leading, and not sure he wants to find out at all.

 

“Yes. It is... quite mystifying. There were rumours, of course, but they were only believed by the most unconventional of scholars. However, on our recent expedition in Greenland, we found them. The scientists call them artifacts.” Brad can hear the quotation marks in Beckman’s voice.

 

“Artifacts,” Brad says, still not sure where this is going, but wanting to get to the point. It must be late by now - the Club is mostly deserted, just little groups of people here and there. His shoulder aches, and his head is spinning with the events of tonight. And they are not even done yet.

 

“Yes, the artifacts,” Beckman repeats. “Again, I do admit that this might sound … outlandish.” He sounds peeved, Brad thinks. “But our scientists have tested them, and they do work.”

 

“What do they do?” Brad asks. “Are those the weapons you were talking about?” If the Reich has access to even more destructive weapons, he needs to tell Nate about this.

 

Beckman shakes his head. “No. It’s not quite like that. The artifacts allow us to travel through time.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, and for a second Brad wonders if this is all one big joke, one big test for him. Believe it and pass, or doubt it and you’re a traitor. Believe it and be branded a dumb fool, or doubt it and be brought into the fold. But then he looks at Beckman, the light in his eyes, the slightly manic curve of his lips, the carefully controlled frenzy, and sees that the guy is genuinely, feverishly, believing every word he says.

 

“Travel through time,” Brad deadpans. He doesn’t know what else to say.

 

“Yes, Brad. I know. I was sceptical too, at first,” Godfather chimes in. “But I can assure you that they do what Beckman says. They let us go to the future.”

 

“How far into the future?” Brad asks.

 

“We ran several tests, of course. One of them goes into the past, not much of use for us, but one allowed us to go to 1995.”

 

“1995.”

 

Brad whistles. Forty years. Forty years worth of technological development. No wonder they are so hopeful about the war. This is a complete game changer if Brad ever saw one. They won’t even play on the same field as the Japanese. They’ll blow them out of the ballpark.

 

Beckman nods. “Exactly. One of our agents even managed to bring back one of their weapons. Our best scientists are currently working on re-engineering the object. Once we figure out the technology behind it, and are able to distribute it to our troops, we’re good to go.” He throws Brad a congenial smile. “You should get that shoulder sorted as soon as possible, Colbert. We are gung ho.” He laughs at his joke, and Brad’s stomach turns. He needs a second to think about what this all means, what this means for the Reich, but the news come in more quickly than he can think them through.

 

“Oh, we blew his mind,” Beckman says, and he and Godfather laugh.

 

“Well, gentlemen, that sure is a lot of information to take in,” Brad drawls, not hiding just how hard he is trying to keep it all in order. “Anything else I should know about? Aliens?”

 

They all laugh. “Not yet, Colbert, not yet,” Beckman grins. “That is all for now.” He looks around the club, almost empty. “Well, you are up to speed now, Colbert.”

 

Brad nods, not believing for a second that this is indeed all the information the Reich has. But knowing is better than guessing, and he’d never have guessed that time travel was in the works now.

 

Beckman looks at Aldrich and Killinger, who are soundly asleep at the table. “I trust you to take care of this.”

 

Colbert nods. “I’ll put them in a cab and make sure they get home okay.”

 

“Good man.” Beckman shakes Brad’s hand. “Ferrando, I need to talk to you.” Brad watches the two men leaving the club. He takes a deep breath - his mind is still reeling with the new information, but he’ll need more than a minute to wrap his head around this night’s events. Instead, he looks down at the two drunks.

 

“Alright, you losers. Time to get you home.”

 

Killinger is the easier of the two - not just because he’s less drunk, he also weighs less. It’s quite simple to hand him off to the closest waiter.

 

Aldrich however, is deeply asleep, and it takes several hardy pokes from Brad to wake him up.

 

He looks at Brad with bleary eyes. “So they told you about the thingys.” He chortles drunkenly. “The thingys, Colbert.”

 

His breath hits Brad’s face like a wave of alcohol and stale food. “Yes, Aldrich, they told me.” He tries to get the guy upright. He won’t be able to carry Aldrich, not with his shoulder, and because his pride forbids him to do so.

 

When he finally manages to get Aldrich to stand, leaning heavily on Brad, but that’s okay, as long as he’s able to walk, Aldrich leans in. “We can go to the future, Colbert.”

 

“Yes, I gathered as much,” Brad says, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. This guy is responsible for communications, for Christ’s sake. It all makes sense now.

 

“And the paaaast,” Aldrich says as they slowly make their way through the club, past passed-out figures on the floor and at least one couple making out in a booth. Brad forces himself not to check whether the girl is the one that sat on his lap before. Instead, he focuses on keeping Aldrich upright as much as he can.

 

“Yes, and the past,” Brad repeats, hoping the conversation will help Aldrich stay awake.

 

“We could do it all over again, Colbert.” Aldrich says, his speech heavily slurred. “We could go back and fight the Americans again.”

 

That’s a stupid idea, Brad wants to say. I am American, he wants to say. “Well, it looks like they found a new enemy, so no use going back.” They enter the elevator, and Brad hopes that the movement won’t make Aldrich sick. The last thing he needs tonight is having to clean vomit off his shoes.

 

“Yes, but the Americans were so much fun,” Aldrich mumbles, and before Brad can stop him, he presses every single one of the elevator’s buttons. He giggles, and Brad wonders if the elevator has security cameras. He’s decently sure he could kill Aldrich and make it look like an accident.  

 

“I guess they were,” Brad says instead. “Gave us a good fight too.”

 

“Yesssss,” Aldrich says, leaning against the elevator wall. Brad watches the doors open, close, open, close. He’s not sure how much longer this will take. He wants to go home.

 

After a beat of silence, Aldrich speaks up. “We were actually really lucky.” And for a second, he sounds strangely sober. Then he giggles again, and Brad decides that giggling and vomiting are equally bad.

 

Still, he’d rather keep the conversation going, if only to keep Aldrich from falling asleep. “How so?”

 

“Well, Brad…” Aldrich leans in, and Brad has to step forward and prop him up to avoid him falling over. Jesus Christ.

 

“They killed Roosevelt for us.” This sends Aldrich into another giggling fit. “They killed… their president!” He laughs so hard he almost tips over.

 

“What do you mean?” Brad asks, not sure what Aldrich is talking about. “Roosevelt died of polio.” He knows this. Everybody knows this. Roosevelt died at the height of the war, leaving the country leaderless and highly vulnerable, a fact that the Reich exploited mercilessly.

 

“No, noooo. That’s what they said.” Again, Aldrich giggles. “They killed Roosevelt. Made our job so much easier.”

 

“Why is that?” Brad asks, emotionlessly. Compared to what else he learnt today, it’s hard to tell how the why would be of particular import, but it still unsettles him. He keeps learning these new bits of information that make everything he thought he knew untrue. Brad knows that an assassination is small news compared to time travel, yet this feels too much all of a sudden. He can’t trust anything, not really. He stores the intel in the back of his mind to tell Ray later.

 

A gurgling noise pulls him out of his thoughts, and he looks down to see Aldrich getting sick all over the floor. Doesn’t that just take the crown. Brad sighs, and spares a thought for the worker who will have to clean up this mess.

 

Once the elevator doors open, he pushes a half-asleep Aldrich into the arms of the concierge. “Make sure he gets home,” Brad instructs curtly. He cannot stick around much longer. He needs to get out, go home, have a shower.

 

The walk home doesn’t help to clear his thoughts at all. He has to trust that Beckman spoke the truth – there’s no reason for him not to. If this was all an elaborate scheme to test Brad’s trust, they would have gone with something more believable than time travel.

 

No, he has to accept that they are actually able to and working on bringing weapons from the future back. Jesus Christ. How did they end up here. Brad shakes his head. Never in a million years would he have expected something like this.

 

He wants to talk to Nate and Mike, see what they think, but Brad knows he needs to settle his thoughts first, work out what they mean for him. And he needs to figure out how to explain the entire time travel thing to them without sounding like a straight-up lunatic.

 

When he gets to his building, the concierge is there to open the door for him like he does every day. Brad wonders what he must look like – vomit on his shoes, smelling like booze and cheap perfume. The concierge, however, is a professional. He doesn’t let anything show on his face. Instead, he greets Brad with his customary “Good evening, sir.”

 

Brad is halfway through the elevator when the concierge comes running after him. “I almost forgot, Hauptscharführer Colbert. My apologies.” He hands Brad an envelope and looks petrified.

 

Brad doesn’t understand why until he realizes that he is back to being the most important person in the room, Hauptscharführer Colbert, who will accept nothing less than perfection. “It’s alright, thank you.” He takes the envelope.

 

His heart squeezes when he sees the _Sorry we missed you_ note on the package. Of course. His meds. Nate delivered them. Brad looks closer to discover a scribbled note. _Let us know how we did today_. Brad sighs. That’s the question.

 

____________

 

The apartment is quiet when Brad closes the door behind him. He goes back to the kitchen, trying to get a grip on his thoughts.  
  
The Reich has discovered a way to travel through time, both backwards and forwards. They are working on bringing weapons back from the future, and once they succeeded, they will set off to conquer the Japanese Zone.  
  
Brad's mind flips over what that means - total destruction and devastation. Death. He shudders.  
  
There's two options, his mind supplies. First option is that everybody took a healthy dose of LSD and collectively lost their mind, losing themselves to a big hallucination. Brad wishes it were so - but he knows the Reich, and knows that people usually disappear when they reached this level of craziness.  
  
No, he finally realizes. They are telling the truth. But - and here's what he's stuck on - he doesn't know what to do with this information. He should tell Nate and Mike, but how going about that without sounding like he completely lost it?  
  
He needs to talk to somebody, somebody who won't laugh in his face. Well, figuratively.  
  
Brad sighs and dials a number he knows by heart by now.  
  
"Brad, you’ll have to speak up. I’m only wearing a towel.”

  
Brad sighs. "Ray, I need you to pull all three of your brain cells together and listen."  
  
There's a moment of silence before Ray continues, voice serious. "Okay, Brad. What's up?"  
  
Brad hesitates. He still doesn't know how to play this, how to make sure he doesn't sound lunatic. Time travel. Jesus Motherfucking Christ.  
  
"Brad?" Ray asks. "Are you okay?" He sounds legitimately worried.  
  
"Yeah, yeah." Brad hurries to say. "It's just... Okay. What I am telling you now will perhaps sound a bit outlandish, but bear with me, okay?"  
  
Ray laughs in his ear, a welcome sound that eases some of the tension Brad is feeling. "Can't be more outlandish than Mike telling me that Brad Motherfucking Colbert, Son of the Reich and Star of a Dozen Propaganda Movies, was playing on our side of the railroad tracks." Ray cackles. "I have to admit, for a second I was convinced Mike finally snapped."  
  
"Yeah." Brad says, absentmindedly.  
  
"But we've come a long way, buddy. Brad. We're like besties. Except, you know, Nate is probably your bestie, but i'm like your second bestie. Your right hand man."  
  
"You are." Brad says, and it's no lie - he would be lost without Ray.  
  
"Okay, so what's on your heart, sweetietums?" Ray coons, and Brad can't help but laugh.  
  
"Ray, this might sound a bit weird, but bear with me."  
  
"You're in deep love with Nate and the two of you want to elope to the Neutral Zone?"  
  
"Ray. Shut up."  
  
"Shutting up."  
  
Brad takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "I was at a party yesterday." He stops.  
  
"Uh. Nice party?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh. Okay, keep on going." Ray prompts him.  
  
"Everybody was drunk and worse, but I had one very interesting conversation with a Mister Killinger."  
  
"The head of the secret police?"  
  
"How do you know who that is?" Brad is surprised, but probably shouldn't be. It's Ray, after all.  
  
"I know who to keep away from, and that dude is definitely on my avoid-list."  
  
Brad hums in agreement. "What else do you know about him?"  
  
"He's top of the crop, Brad. He's the real deal. Killinger's behind the crackdown on civilians, and he's the one who decides who to arrest. Don't tell me you pissed him off, Brad." Ray sounds vaguely worried, and that more than anything else tells Brad how dangerous this guy is.  
  
"No, on the contrary. I think he considers us friends."  
  
Ray laughs. "Brad, Killinger doesn't have friends. He has people that are useful to him."  
  
"Well, I think he considers me one of those, then."  
  
"Okay. What did Killinger say?"  
  
"This might sound a bit weird," Brad warns.  
  
"It's okay, I've heard some weird shit in my life. Comes with listening in on people's phone calls, homes. Go ahead and tell your Ray-Ray what he said."  
  
"They found a way to travel through time." Brad says, bracing himself for the inevitable ridicule. It doesn't come. instead, there's silence.  
  
"Motherfuckers."  
  
Brad hears a thump, and heavy footsteps. When Ray comes back to the phone, he sounds breathless.  
  
"I heard about that, a while ago. Rumours, nothing I could trace back to anywhere." Ray seems to be shifting through some papers. "Oh yeah. Here. They sent out an expedition a while ago, hoping to find some 'artifacts'. But I could never verify any of it." Ray trails off in silence.  
  
"Yeah, seems like they found it. They can now travel to the future. They're working on bringing some weapons back, and once they do, they'll start the war on a huge advantage."  
  
Brad doesn't have to explain more. "Motherfuckers." Ray says, slowly.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Brad sits on his couch, waiting, hoping that Ray can get a grip on this better than he can.  
  
"Brad?"  
  
"Yeah, Ray?"  
  
"We can't let them get those weapons." Ray says.  
  
"I know. I just don't know how to stop them, Ray." Brad says, letting hopelessness seep into his voice.  
  
Ray just hums, and Brad waits. He knows there's more to come.  
  
"Is it just the future?"  
  
Brad blinks, trying to follow Ray's thoughts. "What?"  
  
"Can they travel into the past too, or just the future?" Ray says, suddenly energetic.  
  
"Both ways, I think, but they don't pay much attention to the past. Why should they. Everything went their way. They think about future wars, not the past." Brad answers.  
  
"Oh, homes. OH." Ray explains. "I think I might have something, but I'll need a day or two to get the info I need."  
  
"Okay?" Brad says, unsure. "Can I help you?"  
  
"Yeah, stay out of trouble. Talk to you soon!" Before Brad can react, Ray hangs up. Brad sits there, in his dark apartment, and tries to quell the hope that surges in his stomach. Ray might be wrong. He might not find anything. He's a hick, but by now, Brad knows Ray is also far smarter than he lets on. If anyone can dig up something, it’s Ray.

  
A slow smile blossoms on Brad's face. They might have a chance after all.

 

____________

 

  

>  The Reich has chosen some of their best soldiers to be armed with “nuclear backpacks”, the commandant of the Eastern Armies, SS-Oberführer Ferrando, better known by his callsign Godfather, has revealed today. This comes as no surprise as tensions increase between the Reich and the Japanese Zone over military exercises in the Neutral Zone.
> 
> Godfather told DAILY REICH NEWS that special units have been formed since March to carry the weapons. He also confirmed reports that those specialized units have been taking part in simulated training exercises with dummy bombs held in the Neutral Zone.
> 
> “Outstanding soldiers were selected from each reconnaissance platoon and light infantry brigade under my command to form the nuclear backpack unit the size of a battalion,” Godfather said. “The backpacks weigh between 10 and 30kgs and are able to spray radioactive material on the enemy. These mobile units will allow us to dictate the tempo of the movement and give us a decisive strategic advantage.”
> 
> As our readers will recall, the public got its first glance at the fantastic innovation during the parade celebrating the anniversary of the national worker’s party in October. One of the platoons marching in the parade was seen wearing rucksacks bearing the yellow and black radiation symbol. It is only now that the armed forces have confirmed that these mobile units are indeed trained and ready for the fight.
> 
> When asked for comment, Godfather said that this innovation had been years in the making. “This is cutting-edge weapons technology that even the motherland doesn’t have yet. This is an accomplishment of the American people. After more than fifteen years of help from the motherland, we now have the skills to progress on our own. This will change things.”
> 
> This revelation comes in the same week as an announcement that two top officials of the Reich, Mr Diefenbach and Mr Falk, have been sent to the Southern Provinces for re-education. Mr Diefenbach, a senior Workers’ Party official in charge of anti-Japanese spy operations, and Mr Falk, a senior party official for the Ministry of Propaganda and Press, have been asked to undertake re-education programmes as their recent work didn’t show an appropriate aggressiveness when dealing with their Japanese counterparts.
> 
> The Reich has also intensified its military exercises along the border to the Neutral Zones. We now have more than 75,000 military personnel located within close proximity to the border, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. These troops have now been joined by the mobile nuclear units mentioned above.
> 
> In a statement earlier this week, the Japanese described our exercises as “provocation” and insisted that the Reich stops it activites. This, of course, will not happen as the Reich doesn’t bow to anybody’s requests. We are now strong enough to strike decisively. The Japanese should not forget about this.
> 
> The motherland has reacted very favourably to the considerable progress the Reich has made on weapons technology this year. This includes an updated submarine-launched missile technology, improved stealth camouflage for our planes, and improvements to the existing nuclear weaponry. In fact, the motherland has announced it will send a commission of experts, led by Freiherr Wehrner von Braun, to the Reich to inspect the new weapons technology.

 

____________

 

 

Three days later, they all meet in Brad’s basement, which, as Brad is informed by Ray, can be easily accessed by a remote tunnel system.

(“It’s totally safe, homes. That’s how I got to your building to watch you sleep.”  
  
“Indeed, I think we should talk about such things as ‘privacy’ and ‘illegal trespassing’, which might be unfamiliar concepts to you thanks to your upbringing in a shed that housed three generations of inbred troglodytes, but is nevertheless important for civilized people.”  
  
“Aw, Bradley, you know I like it when you bring out the big words.”)

 

Brad’s been waiting for ten minutes before he hears noises coming from the heating unit. The door opens and he can make out three people. Brad’s eyes automatically muster Nate, who seems to be in more or less the same shape since the last time they met. Perhaps a bit thinner. Nate smiles at him as they walk up to him, and a warmth spreads in Brad’s body.

 

All of a sudden, he is wrapped in a tight embrace.

 

“BRADLEY BOO!” Ray’s voice croos in Brad’s ear, and Brad huffs. He should have known. Instead of fighting the embrace, he looks down at the small figure holding onto him.

 

Brad sometimes wondered what Ray looked like, but whatever he expected, this isn’t it. Ray is short, has huge eyes and short cropped hair, and looks like he’d weigh ninety pounds soaking wet. Brad looks at where Ray’s collarbone pokes through the thin shirt. He’d say Ray was clinically underweight, about thirty pounds from where he should be.  

 

Brad thinks about his full refrigerator upstairs and his stomach clenches.

 

Ray makes no move to break his hug, instead snuggling even closer to Brad’s chest. Brad looks at Nate and his breath hitches. Nate is laughing, honest to God laughing, looking at Brad and Ray and clapping Mike on his shoulder. Brad knows he’s staring at Nate, but he can’t not. Nate laughing is the best thing Brad’s ever seen.

 

“Yo, Aryan king, have you ever been hugged?” Ray’s voice distracts Brad. “You gotta hug back, man. Don’t be afraid to show your Ray-Ray how you feel.” With that, Ray tightens his embrace, his tiny arms shaking with strain. Brad awkwardly pats him on the shoulder.

 

“That was the lamest hug ever, man. I’m gonna call the newspapers and let them know that manmeat Colbert doesn’t know how to embrace people.” With a clap on his back, Ray releases Brad and walks up to Nate

 

“He hugged me, Nate.” Brad always envied Ray for his endless energy, but now that he’s in a room with the man, he can see it’s restless. It lights up the room, sure, but Brad can tell Ray is burning his candle at both ends.

 

“I saw, Ray.” Nate is still glowing from laughing, and Brad smiles before turning to the third figure who watched the whole thing unfold.

 

Mike. Brad only met him once, briefly, when he came back from the Neutral Zone. It feels like a lifetime ago now.

 

Mike hasn’t changed too much since, Brad thinks. A bit thinner perhaps, but that would be the rationing – Nate’s, not his. Sharing and the black market are the only ways a dead man can eat.

 

When they first met, Brad was struck by Mike’s calm demeanour, his solemness and the quiet reassurance that radiated from him. That’s what Brad needed, back then - back in New York, uncertain how to proceed with the work he’d done with Poke. Looking back, Brad knows he must have looked like a wild animal caught in a trap, but Mike helped him, set him on the path that led them all here.

 

Brad would like him for simply being Nate’s friend, but he suddenly realizes that Mike might be his friend, too. He can’t imagine the man turning his back on someone he’s stood with, even when that someone happens to be his former enemy. The thought makes him smile as he shakes Mike’s hand.

 

“Mike.”

 

“Brad.”

 

Mike’s handshake is firm and reliable, just like the man himself. Mike’s not a man of many words, but then, neither is Brad.

 

Brad takes a step back and looks at them. They’re his friends, he realizes. The three people he can rely upon most in the world.

 

After a beat of silence, Ray speaks up. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today..."  
  
"Ray." Brad says in a voice that would shut up lesser men.  
  
"Okay, whatever, boys," Ray says, petulantly. "Let's do this. Brad, why don't you start?"  
  
Brad looks at them - Mike, Nate and Ray. This is, he suddenly realizes, the first time all four of them are together in one room. It will probably be the last, too.  
  
"Brad?" Nate asks.  
  
Brad takes a deep breath. "I have recently learnt of the reason why the Reich is speeding up their plans for a war." The words echo slightly in the dark room as Brad attempts to find a way to explain without sounding as crazy as the words will imply.  
  
"Just say it, homes. They'll understand," Ray prompts with an understanding shrug. Mike's and Nate's heads turn back to Brad, looking at him.  
  
"They found a way to travel through time." It doesn't sound as ridiculous as it did in the beginning, Brad realizes. Apparently, lies aren't the only thing that gets more believable through repeating. The truth does, too.  
  
Nate looks at him in utter incomprehension, but it's Mike who speaks up first.  
  
"Time travel?" He repeats, incredulously. "Brad..." His voice trails, as if he was trying to find a gentle way to tell Brad he’s lost it.  
  
Brad smiles wryly. "I know. I couldn't believe it, either, but it's true."  
  
"Hells yes it is, homes." Ray steps forward, and Brad sees now that he is holding a shaft of papers in his hands. "Here's what their scientists say," he shoves the bundles of papers at Nate, who is still standing frozen like a deer caught in the headlights, “and here are two different reports from successful occurrences of time travel.” He shoves more papers at Nate, and hands out a few copies to Mike for good measure. “Scientists are pretty reliable when it comes to documenting shit, and they’re _very_ reliable when it comes to documenting anything extra funky, but man, I had to dig deep to get those reports. They’re guarding them worse than the Japanese guard their military prostitutes, and you know how much they love their military prostitutes.”

Nate’s head is bent over the documents, frown visible between his brows as his eyes scan the words.

 

“ _So far, the way to operate the artifact seems to be to hold it and think about when you want to travel to_ ,” Nate reads, before looking up, disbelief written plain in every line of his face. “You’re joking.”

  
Brad looks at him, pleading him to understand and trust him. It is insane, it’s completely mad, but it’s also true, and the best lead they’ve ever had. Nate stares back for a long second, before nodding.  
  
"Okay. I'll just ... accept this and think about what this means to my world view later," Nate says, slowly.  
  
Mike takes the papers from Nate and starts reading over them. "So we know they can do it?"  
  
Brad nods. "Both forward and backward in time, yes."  
  
"That explains their hurry, then. No need to wait if you have superior fire power," Mike says, still reading, and once again Brad is hit by his tactical genius. Mike grasped within seconds what it took the superior officers of the Reich several weeks to figure out.  
  
"Exactly," Brad says.  
  
"What else do we know?" Nate says.  
  
"According to their notes – which, by the way, Ray, we will need to see how you got a hold of this – they are focusing on the future artifact. They did some successful test runs. They can bring things with them back to the present."  
  
"Can you decide how far you'll travel or is it random?" Nate asks.  
  
Ray jumps in. "Nah, you can decide. It doesn't always work - some of their agents landed in the wrong week - but the error is usually within three weeks or so." He walks over to Mike and points at one table on a page. "There. It's actually quite precise, if you're not an idiot and know what you're doing."  
  
Nate looks up. "So what is the plan?"  
  
Brad looks at him and Nate continues.  
  
"Don't tell me you called us all here and don't have a plan. I am still stuck on the entire time-travel thing, but I'm sure you know what to do with it."  
  
Brad smiles. "Actually, Nate, and I cannot believe I am saying this, Ray came up with a pretty good idea."  
  
Ray beams. "I hope you all heard that. Hauptscharführer Colbert, he of the thousand terrors, said I had a good idea." He bumps his shoulder into Brad's.  
  
"Why don't you share it with the class, Ray?" Brad says.  
  
"Okay, losers. Hold onto your pants because your testicles are about to drop."  
  
"Ray."  
  
"Alright, alright. How about this: We will go into the past and kill a motherfucker."  
  
His words are met with stunned silence. Brad can't hold this against Mike and Nate - he himself was shocked when he first heard it.  
  
"Kill a motherfucker," Mike slowly repeats. "I think I'll need more info than that, Ray."  
  
“So I was thinking about going forward, but that doesn’t help. No way to fight them in a future we know nothing about, so it doesn’t really matter. So instead,” Ray beams, "We'll go back in time and kill the person who killed Roosevelt. So overall, we're being the good guys here. Just, y'know, killing a guy. Overall good, details a bit bad. Oh hey. We're morally ambiguous heroes! Tales will be sung about us!–"  
  
Brad interrupts him. "That's enough, Ray. I'll take things from here." Ray pouts, but Brad turns towards Mike and Nate.  
  
"Let me explain," he starts, but he's interrupted by Nate.  
  
"We'll kill the guy who assassinates Roosevelt, thereby altering the past and making sure the Nazis never won the war."  
  
Brad nods. “Germany didn’t have a shot at conquering the US until Roosevelt died and everything went to hell. If we make sure that doesn’t happen, we have a good chance of avoiding the capitulation.”  
  
"But ... aren't we creating a new universe by doing that?" Nate crinkles his nose, which Brad does his best to not find endearing.  
  
"Yes, homes, we are! Which is some meta level shit if you think about it. We'll kill everybody who exists right now, in a way. If that's not meta, I don't know what is." Ray sounds more excited than the situation warrants.  
  
"But then..." Nate seems at a loss of words. "We... disappear? Reboot?"  
  
Brad's heart clenches, but Ray answers before he can beat him to it.  
  
"Yes, but we're also not living in a dystopian hell, so there's that." He sounds smug. "I cannot wait to see what I get up to if I am not living in a fucking attic like some sort of deformed monster you have to hide away. Hey. Brad. Hell. I might even go to college"  
  
"Don't get ahead of yourself, little grasshopper. Changing the past won't change the fact that you'll still be a useless hick," Brad says, but there's no heat behind his words.  
  
Nate is right, they will kill everybody in this world, and change it completely. In a way, this isn't any different than the total destruction that the war would bring. Everybody's life will re-set from the moment it was when Roosevelt was killed.  
  
"I remember that day," Nate says, so quiet that Brad has to strain his ears to hear. "They were listening to the TV when they said the president got killed."  
  
Mike hums in agreement. "I was at the baseball park, and a newspaper boy ran by with a special edition, yelling at the top of his lungs." He sounds incredibly sad.  
  
Brad tries to remember where he was, but he can't. With his parents, still. His stomach sinks as he thinks about them.  
  
"It's a bit..." Nate sounds uncertain. "It's a lot."  
  
He doesn't have to explain what he means. They won't save their world. They will destroy it, and hope that the world that comes into existence instead won't be as bad. There will be no way for them to know as they, as they are right now, will cease to exist as well.  
  
"Indeed." Mike says, just as quiet. The enormity of their plan seems to shake them all. Hell, Brad had a couple of days to think about it, yet his mind still balks.  
  
They will go back to the past, foil an assassination, and start a new universe. He shakes his head. This is all crazy.  
  
"It's the only way." Nate says, quietly. "Right?"  
  
He looks at Brad. Instead of replying, Brad just nods.  
  
"It's the only way Brad and I could think of, homes." Ray says. "And hey, if you think about it - we're avoiding a whole lot of pain for everybody." He sounds downright cheerful.  
  
"There's not just bad things, Ray." Nate says, patient. "Good things happened, too. And we'll take them away from the people without even giving them a choice."  
  
Oh Nate, Brad thinks. You really are an idealist.  
  
"There's no other way, Nate," Mike says, and Nate nods.  
  
"I know. I just... It's a lot."  
  
They all fall into silence that gets interrupted when Ray speaks up. "So now that we all agreed that we will kill everybody we ever met, let's talk details."  
  
Brad, however, is still looking at Nate. Nate looks back at him, holding his gaze. They'll do this, Brad suddenly realizes. They will actually do this. And even if things go right and they'll succeed, he will never get this again.  
  
"So we had a quick look at all of our skill sets and decided that one of us was literally born and raised to kill an entire civilization, and his name starts with B and ends with rad, which is a pretty apt description, if you ask me." Ray rambles whenever he's nervous, Brad realizes.  
  
It takes a second for the words to sink in, and when they do, Nate erupts. "No."  
  
"It's the right thing to do, Nate. You should understand this better than everybody," Brad patiently explains. Nate has to understand it has to be Brad who travels back through time. He'll be the one who can stop this, and make sure everybody else will be alright.  
  
"Brad, look at me," Nate says, stepping into Brad's space. Brad's gaze snaps to Nate. "You will be stuck there. Everybody's life will change but yours." He grabs Brad by his shirt. "Brad. I cannot let this happen."  
  
Brad had more time than Nate, however, to prepare his argument. "I know, Nate. And that's why it has to be me."  
  
Nate still stares at him. "Brad..." His voice trails.  
  
"I can stop them. I know I can." Brad looks at Nate, trying to commit every detail of him to memory. The freckles on his nose. The vivid green of his eyes. Brad smiles.  
  
"It's all good."  
  
"No it's not," Nate shouts. "You cannot do this."  
  
Before Brad can react, Mike cuts in. "Nate is right, Brad." His voice is calm and measured. "I'll do it."  
  
Brad turns to Mike. Ray elicits a small yelp. Nate starts protesting, but Mike continues. "No discussion. I've watched all of y'alls adventures, and now it's my time." He is stern, but Brad sees that his fists shake.  
  
"Mike..." Nate says, lost, and Brad feels the same.  
  
There is one in their group who will have to give up his hopes at a new future. One of them will be left behind, a stranger in a strange land of his own making.  
  
Mike shrugs. "No discussion, boys. This is my decision, and I won't have any protests. This is my final word."  
  
Brad looks at Nate, trying to figure out if he should protest, should insist, but Nate is looking at Mike, lost and confused.  
  
"Mike."  
  
"Enough, Nate. I've seen you throw away your future once, and I won't do it again. Understood?"  
  
Nate nods reluctantly.  
  
Mike moves to Ray.  
  
"Ray, you got more brains than you'll ever admit, and you deserve a chance. Just don't waste it away."  
  
"I mean I was never really offering to do this self-sacrifice thing, but okay," Ray says, and Brad can hear his voice waver. Ray's words don't fool Brad - he knows Ray would have offered, had Brad not shot him down ferociously during their initial discussion.      
  
Mike smiles. "Okay." He turns to Brad and Brad can feel himself straightening up. He knows the following words will matter.  
  
"Brad, you never really had a choice in all of this. And I'll be damned if I take a second chance away from you." Mike looks at Brad, and Brad can feel himself nodding.  
  
"I'll promise to make it a good one, Mike," he says, slowly.  
  
"I know you will, Brad," Mike says, and clasps Brad's shoulder. The sincerity in his voice shocks Brad.  
  
"Good. Now that's decided, what's the plan?" Mike says, clapping his hands together.

 

“It’s not that simple,” Brad interjects. He may understand Mike’s reasons for volunteering, it doesn’t mean he’s the best suited for the mission when it comes to what it actually entails.

 

Mike turns to Brad, patient rather than expecting, and Brad hesitates. He doesn’t think Mike weak. He doesn’t think Mike would fail because of a lack of strength. But there are things that Brad has done that have made him cold, made him learn how to retreat into himself and sever himself from his feelings in order to achieve what had to be achieved. It is a valuable skill, one that will be needed when the time comes. It’s a skill that no civilian should have. It’s a skill Brad would rather Mike didn’t have.

 

“I know, Brad,” Mike says, before Brad can put his thoughts into words. And his eyes are warm, but there’s an understanding there, something dark and deep and familiar that makes Brad pause.

 

“Do you?” he asks, because he needs to be certain, he needs to be sure Mike isn’t agreeing to sacrificing a part of him he won’t be able to live without.

 

“Yeah,” Mike answers placidly, and Brad forgets sometimes that, under his calm demeanour and laid back, seemingly accidental leadership, Mike used to be a troop leader in the Hitler Youth. He is a man who taught combat, survival skills, and how to shoot firearms to children when he was barely older than a child himself, before faking his own death to become one of the most efficient resistance member this side of the Atlantic.

 

“Okay,” Brad nods. When Mike nods back, he knows they understand each other.

 

“So,” Mike says, turning back to the group, “the plan?”

  
Ray doesn’t miss a beat, pointing at the papers Mike is still holding. "Pretty straightforward, actually. Brad will steal the artifact, you'll go back to the day Roosevelt was killed, and kill the dude before he can kill Roosevelt."  
  
Mike nods. "What's the date?"  
  
Brad replies: "February 15th, 1933. 3:57pm, to be precise." He smiles, even though he feels anything but. Dread is filling his stomach. Leaving is so much easier than being left behind, he realizes. He knew he'd miss Nate like a missing limb, but now that Mike is going, everything is changed. He'll never even get to meet Nate. They'll live on different coasts, have their own lives, not even knowing the other one exists at all.  
  
Except. A sudden thought fills his mind. He could... Perhaps. He needs to think about this. Later.  
  
"Alright, gents." Mike's voice interrupts his thoughts. "I presume those papers have all the information I need?"  
  
"All the information I could find, homes. If you need more, let me know, but no promise that I can find it. They corrected their history pretty well, I must say." Ray answers.  
  
Mike nods. "Thanks, Ray." He smiles, and Brad realizes how much he came to like this man. Mike is playing it straight - he's honest and good, and he is probably a big reason why Nate turned out the way he did.  
  
They're here because of Mike. Mike was the one to give Nate an outlet for his rage, found Ray, and trusted Brad enough to let him in. Brad is floored by a feeling of absolute gratitude. And now Mike will throw away his future for theirs.  
  
"I think that's all, thank you," Mike says. "We shouldn't stick around too long."  
  
Of course, Brad thinks. Again, he has no time to say what he wants to say. Instead, he just nods at Mike, and hopes the man understands.  
  
"Come on, my ragtag crew of bitches," Ray says, turning away to leave. "I'll show you a completely new way back to Brooklyn."  
  
"I just hope it doesn't involve sewers this time," Nate says dryly, but doesn't leave yet.  
  
Instead, he looks at Brad, as if he wants to say something, anything. Brad stares back at him, not sure what he hopes for. They'll never had a chance, and they'll never get one. Nate lifts one corner of his mouth, smiling slowly at Brad. He’s never looked sadder. All Brad can do is smile back.  
  
Nate nods and follows Mike and Ray down the tunnel.

 

____________

 

After they leave, Brad slowly goes back to his apartment, playing the conversation over in his head.

He understands the inevitability of this plan - there is simply no other way. But something grates him about it, and it takes all the way back to his apartment, his door closed behind him, until Brad admits that a small part of him doesn't want to go through with it.

He's fine with sacrificing his life. He was raised to consider it an adequate price to pay for the Reich. He's even fine sacrificing the lives of people he never met - it is for the greater good, even if that argument tastes sour in his mouth. As Nate said – plenty of good things happened, too. And some people might not even want another life. And that’s not just the few lucky on the top of the food ladder. Brad would wager a guess that a lot of people accommodated themselves with the world they live in.

Mike, Poke, Ray - they all agreed to this, and Brad Colbert was never one to try to interfere with a man and his convictions. If a grown adult made a decision, they should be allowed to go through with it, he figures.

But Nate. His breath hitches. He'll lose Nate.

Brad isn't stupid, and in the darkness of his apartment, he finally lets himself think about all the things he pushed away. How he likes having Nate over in his apartment. How the need to keep Nate safe has slowly replaced all other motivations to do this. How the sight of Nate, unharmed, makes the knot in his stomach go away.

Brad takes a deep breath. He's known it for a while now, but this is the first time he's willing to admit it. And all it took was the end of the world.

He can't lose Nate. It's as easy as that.

He pours himself some whisky and waits down on his couch. The city is out there, quiet and dark. He takes a sip and savours the smooth taste.

He wonders how his life will look like in the not too distant past. He'll stay with his parents, probably. Grow up in California. There’s worse fates, he supposes.

Brad tries to remember any parts of his childhood that he enjoyed, but comes up empty. There's half-formed memories of a trip to the beach, but that might as well be something he made up a long time after.

He wonders what this Brad will be like. What parts of his characters are intrinsically him and which ones were ingrained into him by his training?

It's hard to say, but Brad knows there was a reason he succeeded in the hardest training on earth while so many others died or washed out. There is a core of steel to him, and he would be willing to bet the other Brad will have it too. That and his love for speed.

Brad raises his glass in a silent salute to his other self. And his parents. They'll have a hell of a job to do. The best drill sergeants of the Reich had a hard time breaking him, so Brad doesn’t know what chances a middle-aged Jewish couple has.

Brad is self-aware to know that he liked his life before he went to Japan. Chances are, without that trip, he would still be gung-ho for the war, trying to ignore the uneasy implications of the Reich's race policy.

Brad never bought into their entire race crap - how could he - but he liked the challenges his job gave him. He is good at what he does, and there's a reason for that.

Still, he wouldn’t want to go back to that. His life is now a lot more complicated, the stakes are higher, and they just decided to blow up the world, but Brad never second-guessed the decision he made at the diner.

Which brings him back to Nate. Nate. The centre of everything.

Brad takes another sip, knowing he'll regret it in the morning. But there's only so many nights a man can ponder the destiny of his alternate universe, and he senses he’s not done with his self-assessment just yet.

Nate once mentioned briefly he was brought up in Baltimore - followed by a guilty look to Brad, so this must have been at the beginning of their working relationship, back when Nate resented him and Brad couldn't figure him out.

Baltimore. East Coast. Of course. It all makes sense - Nate might be a bike messenger, scraping to get by, but you'd have to be blind to not see that he comes from better stock than that.

Nate, with his insatiable thirst for knowledge. Nate, with his faultless etiquette and good manners.

Yeah, Brad thinks, Nate will have a good life. And as much as he resents losing Nate, he cannot wish they wouldn't go through with it.

Nate deserves a better life than this. Nate deserves to go to university and get his white picket fence home. He'll probably even get a dog, Brad thinks as he grimaces.

His new self will never get to meet Nate. They live on different ends of the country, and they won't run into each other.

Brad's other self will have parents and a childhood and choices, but he won’t have Nate.

Brad shakes his head and decides it's best to go to bed, even though the thought of a Nate-less life upsets him. It's not even his own life, and yet.

Brad can't imagine any version of himself who wouldn't love Nate.

 

____________

 

“Brad,” a voice calls just as Brad is about to step into the shower room. It’s not yet 6am and the headquarters are usually mostly empty so early in the morning, except for Brad and the few men in his unit who still try to keep up with him on his morning run.

 

Brad walks back to the changing room, expecting one of his men. They’re not prone to using his first name, but Brad never actively discouraged it. Instead, he finds himself face to face with a man who is definitely not in his unit.

 

“Sturmbannführer Olgart, sir,” Brad salutes, letting none of his surprise show, although having the head of the investigation into his shooting come to him unannounced bodes ill.

 

Olgart nods and smiles. “At ease,” he instructs, and Brad obeys. They may only have crossed paths a few times, but Olgart has always been nothing but friendly to Brad. He is also known to be competent and unexpectedly sensible. If Brad could, he would almost like the man.

 

“What can I do for you, sir?” Brad asks.

 

“Did you just run ten miles in an hour?” Olgart replies, a complete non sequitur. He doesn’t seem to be yanking Brad’s chain for the fun of it, looks genuinely interested in the answer. “I heard that you ran ten miles every morning,” he explains, “and I saw you arrive about an hour ago.”

 

Brad blinks, taken aback, but dutifully looks at his watch. “One hour and two minutes, sir.”

 

Olgart whistles. “It’s almost a shame you were born too late for the war in Europe, you’d have been spectacular,” he smiles jovially. “Though I guess you’d have fought against us,” he adds after a second.

 

“I’m afraid I would have,” Brad finds himself saying, causing Olgart to chuckle.

 

“When you’re done with your shower, come up to Godfather’s office. We have a surprise for you.”

 

And here is the news. Brad takes a measured breath. “Good surprise?”

 

“Aren’t they always?” Olgart shrugs, and turns away.

 

“I’ll be there in five.”

 

“Take your time, Brad,” Olgart says, walking away. “They’re not going anywhere.”

 

The air in Brad’s lungs leave him in a rush and he feels suddenly sick, his tall frame ten times heavier than it should be.

 

Olgart’s team caught someone. Olgart’s team caught several someones.

 

Shit. _Shit_.

 

He’s clean, dry, dressed, and on his way to Godfather’s office within four minutes. And if his heart is pounding, and his hands have lost all their strength, and if it feels like his insides are gone, as long as it doesn’t show it doesn’t matter. Brad breathes slowly, in, out. He blinks, he puts one foot in front of the other, he moves forward, and he doesn’t give any attention to the roaring _not now, not now, please no_ between his ears.

 

Olgart is indeed waiting in Godfather’s office when Brad steps in after Godfather’s raspy voice invites him in. They both seem rather cheerful, in so far as Godfather can muster cheerful rather than meanly smug. He must be shitting his pants in fucking ecstasy, Brad thinks as he politely greets his commander, each heartbeat lighter than the next for every second he remains suspended in ignorance.

 

“Oberführer, sir. Sturmbannführer. I heard there was a surprise.”

 

“I know you hated not being part of the hunt for the son of a bitch who shot you,” Godfather says without preamble, “but you’ll be glad to know that Olgart got him and his friends earlier in the night.”

 

They couldn’t have caught Pappy without Ray informing Brad right away, even in the middle of the night.

 

Unless they also caught Ray.

 

Brad does not gulp, does not even blink. “I assumed as much, yes.” He nods at Olgart, who nods back.

 

“As a compromise,” Godfather continues, “Olgart has accepted to let you take care of the executions.”

 

Brad is familiar with his body’s reaction to high stress situations. His heartbeat and his breathing slow to a regular, steady rhythm, his senses sharpen all at once, he feels lighter, stronger, the gears in his brain spin smoothly. Brad’s body is a well-oiled machine trained to handle everything thrown at it.

 

This time, however, there’s a hitch and a hiccup, and the entire world slams to a halt.

 

“That is indeed a surprise,” he hears himself say.

 

We had a plan, he thinks.

 

“It’s the least I can do, Brad. You must be champing at the bit.”

 

We had a plan.

 

“I appreciate it, sir.”

 

We were going to win.

 

“No better way to start the day than by killing traitors.”

 

Brad grins.

 

I was going to kill _you_.

 

“I’ll have them brought out to the courtyard,” Olgart’s voice says before his footsteps disappear out the door.

 

Brad snaps out of his thoughts, seeing an opportunity. “Let me get my gun and I’ll meet you there.” He has his sidearm, but his Browning is in his office. So is his phone. He could–

 

“I’ll send an intern,” Godfather dismisses with a wave of his hand and picks up his phone. “Bring Hauptscharführer’s ceremony weapon to him so he can shoot the bastards who tried to kill him, they’ll fight over the privilege.”

 

Brad smiles tightly. He wouldn’t have had time to make a call anyway. And if they got Ray, there’s nobody he could call anyways.It doesn’t matter. It’s over. The thought settles in Brad’s mouth with a coppery taste. So this is what defeat tastes like, Brad thinks.

 

Godfather stands up, walks around his desk to stand before Brad. For the first time, Brad realizes how much taller than his commanding officer he is. It isn’t that he never noticed before, but it was irrelevant. Godfather was his commanding officer, physicality never entered into it. Now he’s a man ordering him to murder his friends. Ferrando might be a tough son of a bitch, but Brad is taller, younger, stronger. Angrier. He would win. If it was only down to the two of them, Brad could kill Godfather in an instant.

 

But it’s not. Godfather has all the privileges of power behind him, and all Brad has is a couple of friends he is now ordered to shoot.

 

“Once you meet our guests,” Godfather starts slowly, before a pointed pause, “I want you to introduce yourself to them properly. There will be no sanction.” He pats Brad on the shoulder and Brad pictures himself shooting Olgart and his team and getting away with it.

 

Once the image is there, he can’t shake it.

 

“Will do, sir,” he finds himself saying, the words making the decision for him. And it’s so much easier to think once his mind is clear. If Nate’s in that line up, Brad will be happy to show them all who he is.

 

There is a knock on the door, and a young man comes in carrying a small black box. He hands it to Brad with reverence, fingers lingering on the smooth surface. Godfather was right. Within these walls, Hauptscharführer Colbert’s murder weapon is a sacred object.

 

“How many bullets?” Brad asks the intern.

 

The kid’s eyes widen in awe at being addressed, but he composes himself quickly, stammering only slightly when he replies.

 

“Five, Hauptscharführer, sir.”

 

Five. Pappy, Ray, Nate, Mike. Pappy’s partner Rudy, certainly.

Or: Olgart. Godfather. And then the next three men in uniform he sees.

 

“Are we sure it’s them?” Brad turns to Godfather, eyes narrowed. It’s a stupid question to ask. What difference would it make? Clemency is a currency the Reich does not much care for.

 

Godfather considers Brad for a second, searching his face. It occurs to Brad that he isn’t putting any effort in hiding his thoughts, and for half a second, he wonders what he will do if Godfather sees everything he’s been hiding. Five bullets only get you so far.

 

“Evidence and a confession,” Godfather answers eventually with a careless shrug, and just like that, Brad knows that his commander will never suspect him.

 

 _When you see someone standing in front of you, you do not question whether they are breathing or not._ Brad inhales sharply at the memory, heart rate spiking before settling down. There would have been a lot more agitation if Walt had been caught.

 

Brad nods, grabs his Browning, and leaves without another word.

 

The walk to the courtyard takes no time at all. If Brad forms any brilliant thoughts between stepping out of Godfather’s office and taking the stairs down into the courtyard, he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t holster the Browning. The gun fits in his hand like it always does, a solid presence, comforting in its familiarity despite not being the weapon he gets to use most often. He’d also rather have it ready if he needs to shoot Olgart.

 

The first thought that pierces through the fog in Brad’s head as he steps into the courtyard is : Nate’s not here – although it is less of a thought and more of a sudden and staggering sense of relief that leaves his lungs empty and his head light. His entire body reboots. His fingertips tingle, and the world is suddenly back on its axis.

 

The prisoners are standing two meters apart, hands tied behind their backs, wearing hoods over their heads, but the shapes of them are all wrong. Brad would know the shape of Nate anywhere, he’s watched him come close and move away so many times. He knows the broadness of his shoulders, the strong curves of his arms. He would recognize the narrow width of his hips, the way he stands on his feet and refuses to hunch over for anyone.

 

He takes a second look at them to make sure, but he has no doubt. He would know Nate – he _knows_ Nate. And Nate’s not here.

 

None of these men are him. They are also not Mike, and none of them has Ray’s lean build. Brad takes a deep breath. He’s never met Pappy or Rudy, but if three of the five are wrong, chances are all of them are wrong.

 

Brad turns away from the prisoners, towards the guards standing next to them. He nods automatically at their salute.

 

The judge steps forward, official looking piece of paper in hand, and Brad frowns before he notices the photographer standing a few steps to the side. Of course. What a golden fucking opportunity. Brad stares at the poor hooded fuckers and hopes that the picture man catches his disgusted smirk.

 

He should have known. He should have known the Reich would fuck this up. Or, he amends, perhaps they know they got the wrong people, and have chosen not to care. They’re probably guilty of something. This is the Greater Reich. Everyone’s guilty of something if you dig deep enough. It is one way to close the investigation. It’s been weeks and the people are demanding that blood be spilled in exchange for Brad’s. The Reich cannot let show that it has been outsmarted.

 

The judge finishes reading the verdict. There won’t be any chance for appeal. The Reich shows no mercy. Brad takes a step forward. He knows his place. He knows why he’s here. And just in that moment, he hears the _clac-clac_ of a camera shutter. Brad doesn’t turn, ignores the sound, but he can imagine the headlines of the evening edition already. There’s no way Nate won’t see them.

 

Another step, and he’s within five meters of the first hooded figure. Brad takes one last look at the judge, who nods and signals the guards to pull the hoods off the prisoners.

 

It isn’t much of a reveal. Brad has never seen any of the five men before in his life. None of them even has green eyes, and for some reason his brain stays on this thought for one beat too long. All five faces are so unexceptional Brad knows he’ll have forgotten them by tonight. The most striking thing about them is that they hate him. Brad has seen loathing in people, plain or hidden, expressed in myriad of different ways glaring or subtle. These five men in front of him are full of it, and if Brad were a different man he might flinch. But he is Hauptscharführer Colbert, and he is Brad, so he stands before them, meets their eyes as he lets them hate him, and thinks: I’m sorry.

 

Left arm folded behind his back, feet planted on the ground shoulder width apart, right arm extended, elbow locked, Brad inhales, exhales, thinks _not Nate_ , and fires.

 

Two steps to the right, left arm folded behind his back, right arm extended, inhale, exhale, _not Ray_ , fire.

  


Two steps, left arm, right arm, inhale, exhale, _not Mike_ , fire.

  
  


Two steps, right arm, inhale, exhale, _not Walt_ , fire.

  
  
  


Steps, arm, inhale, exhale. Not Nate. Inhale. Exhale.

  
  
  
  


Not me.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Fire.

 

 

 

 

____________

 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Ray mutters, phone stuck to his ear, knee bouncing almost hard enough to hit the table. He waits half a minute more before throwing the receiver on its cradle. “ _Shit_.”

 

He heaves a short, angry sigh, before picking the receiver back up and dialling a different number.

 

“He’s not answering,” he says as soon as the connection is built.

 

There’s a beat, then Mike replies, “Do you even know if he’s home?”

 

“I’ve got five pairs of eyes on him, and all saw him enter the fucking building half an hour ago. He’s in there, he just doesn’t want to talk to us.” Ray knows what he’s doing. He isn’t being dramatic, he isn’t being irrational. “It’s been three days, Mike.”

 

“Are you sure he’s still in?” Nate’s voice sounds farther away, slightly muffled. He’s either just come in or is ready go out. “There’s no reason he wouldn’t pick up the phone if he was home, he can’t know it’s you.”

 

And that’s– Ray thought Nate would have gotten this about Brad. He knows Nate _has_ gotten this about Brad. Then again, there’s stuff about Brad that Nate clearly isn’t willing to face and Ray will not poke this particular beast with a ten foot stick.

 

Because the way those two fuckers look at each other might have lit up the entire basement of Brad’s building, but Ray knows true love won’t save the day and life sucks balls and doesn’t give a shit that Brad and Nate should be setting off into the sunset together instead of mounting a suicide operation to save the world. So Ray won’t prod, and he won’t say anything, because there’s nothing he can do.

 

“I don’t think anyone else ever calls him,” is what he says, trying to be diplomatic.

 

No one speaks for a long second. There’s a shuffling, a huff, and Nate’s voice is clear in Ray’s ear when he asks, “You sure he’s in the building?”

 

Ray wants to snap but Nate’s change of tone persuades him not to. “Yeah.”

 

“Okay. Call my office. Tell them Hauptscharführer Colbert requests a courier immediately.”

 

Ray shits on the military on a regular basis but he has no doubt that, in a world where the military isn’t run by and a breeding ground for evil psychos, had Nate joined up he would have made one bitch ass officer.

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Yessir.”

 

____________

 

The knock on his door comes sooner than he expected. His guess was that Ray would continue his phone campaign for at least another day.

 

Brad takes a measured breath as he opens the door. As usual, his eyes flick over Nate – everything where it should be, no scratch, no bruise, he’s fine. He’s fine. His jaw is set, his lips thin, and even standing still as he is, anger rolls off of him in waves. Brad knew it would happen, but his treacherous heart skips a beat anyway.

 

Nate came for him.

 

He turns around and heads back inside, leaving the door open for Nate to follow.

 

The door clicks close and footsteps shadow his own until the living room where they stop before Brad does. Brad doesn’t turn around.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Brad?” Nate’s words come out clipped and precise. It’s  a quirk of his, one that Brad would bet Nate isn’t aware of. The angrier he is, the sharper is diction becomes. He hasn’t uttered ten syllables yet, but Brad feels like he could cut himself on the finesse of Nate’s elocution. Brad doesn’t want to know what it says about him that he likes it.

 

He pivots on his heels, because he has no reason not to face Nate.

 

“You do not get to disappear like that,” Nate continues. “Is that clear?” And he is stepping closer, closer, as he always does. And Brad is letting him, taking him in, as he always does. He doesn’t want to know what it says about him that he likes that, too.

 

It’s a shame that Nate’s eyes are never as striking as when he is furious. They shine bright green, sharp and so expressive it seems to Brad that everything around him is a dull, clumsy parody of life and Nate is the only real thing in the world. It would not be that far-fetched. Brad never thought about living before Nate barged into his world and forced him to. Nate and his unshakeable, stupid hope for the future.

 

A future was never part of Brad’s plan, and now, with Nate before him, blood on his hands and time running out, he can’t think of anything else. He wants one for Nate. He wants one for himself. He wants one for _them_.

 

“You’re not listening to me,” Nate says. He is still angry, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, but his eyes betray him. They widen a fraction, a flicker of uncertainty flashing through them before morphing into something pleading.

 

“I always listen to you.” Brad doesn’t reach out but his voice comes out soft as a caress. Nate’s lips part even as a small crease appears between his brows. Brad forces his gaze back up from where it fell on Nate’s lips, drawn by the movement. It’s a conscious effort, and Brad knows exactly what that says about him. He blinks, keeping his eyes closed a second longer than necessary, and takes a step back.

 

Nate doesn’t follow this time, lets Brad reclaim his space, though his attention never wavers. But Brad has learned to handle Nate’s attention. It is his own urge to reciprocate that has always been difficult to control.

 

“I don’t hate you for it.”

 

Brad’s right hand twitch around an imaginary Browning, and for a second it feels sticky with blood that never touched it. His jaw clenches. Of course, Nate would bring it up. It isn’t that Brad had planned to avoid the subject, but what he’s done is done. There’s only one way to change it, and it isn’t by talking about it. Brad takes another step back.

 

“You could,” he says. “You used to.”

 

It’s the wrong thing to say. Nate’s lips curl in a snarl and his entire posture shifts from tense to openly confrontational. He leans towards Brad, shoulders squared, eyes blazing, filling Brad’s vision once more.

 

“Yeah, and you know what happened?” Nate spits, crisp and perfect. “I _met you_ . So you don’t get to pull that shit. You don’t get to _leave_.”

 

For all that his fists didn’t leave his sides, he might as well have struck Brad. Brad’s blood boils for half a second before his head clears the way it always does during a fight.

 

“I don’t get to leave?” he repeats slowly. He is standing too close to Nate again, looming, forcing Nate’s head up to keep meeting his eyes. “Don’t you think I am fully aware of that?” he says, cold as ice. “Don’t you think that it has occurred to me, some time during the past twenty years, that every decision I make is one more nail in a coffin that, whichever side I choose, I cannot and will not escape? And don’t you think,” Brad goes on, and he must be moving because Nate takes a step back, yet somehow the distance between them doesn’t grow, “that I have given enough, and that if I ever decided to pack up what’s left of who I am and leave, I would have _every right to_?”

 

“Go ahead, then, why don’t you?”

 

This is another thing that Nate does. Even before his animosity faded and he and Brad managed to find common ground, he never let either his own fear nor his usual composure stop him from getting in Brad’s face. Brad has seen Nate angry; it is always controlled, contained, and while his words can hurt as much as a punch would, physicality never enters into it. With Brad, he squares his shoulders and pushes, steps into Brad’s space and demands to be seen and heard and felt. With Brad, it is always personal, almost intimate. It’s maddening.

 

Brad’s hand is already up when Nate moves, and it lands flat on Nate’s chest, spreads across his collarbones like a necklace, the tip of his index finger resting at the pulse point in the hollow above the bone. Feeling the blood there, Brad’s brain immediately jumps to the next instinctive action: slide your hand up and squeeze. The thought dissolves before it’s even fully formed, and perhaps it is that brief, muddled flash of violence that spurs Brad on. Perhaps it’s anger, or desire, or Nate’s accusing _why don’t you?_ Instead of once again letting Nate push like he always does, Brad pushes back. He steps forward with his whole body, encroaches into Nate’s space and claims it. Claims him.

 

It’s as much momentum as it is fate, and will, and inevitability. Brad kisses Nate with his eyes open, all but shouting _this is why_ the way his words cannot. It’s an accusation, and a dare, and the only way Brad can touch Nate with a passion that doesn’t end in blood. His lips are firm, his fist balled up at his side, and his body doesn’t remember what tenderness is like but none of this registers, because Nate is staring right back.

 

And where Brad expected shock and disgust, there is only surprise. And where he expected to be shoved off, there is nothing. Nate is passive for a second, two. Then he just… deflates, and Brad wishes he didn’t know him so well, wishes he could pretend that nothing about Nate is deliberate. But there is nothing left to chance in the way Nate closes his eyes, in the way his lips fall open just a fraction to brush against Brad’s; in the way he inhales, stealing the air right from Brad’s lungs, chest expanding under Brad’s hand as his fingers wrap under Brad’s wrist to keep it there, and leans into the kiss.

 

Brad’s insides seem to vanish. It is one thing to know Nate from the way he his body moves and how he holds himself. It is one thing to recognize the absence of him in a crowd because not one person fills the shape of him Brad has burned in his mind. It is something entirely different to feel this body under his hands, under his lips, the solid reality of it, the _life_ in it, and how it accepts him, lets in him, makes Brad wish he could bury himself in it.

 

Brad’s ribcage feels light as air for the span of two heartbeats, euphoria propelling him forward, forward, until he has Nate backed up against the nearest wall and nothing else exists. Just as he is about to kiss Nate again, lips hovering a hair’s breadth away from Nate’s, the weight he’s been carrying comes back like a crashing wave, reels him back, and he tears himself away, panting.

 

He doesn’t get to have this. Not in this world.

 

He needs to call Mike.

 

Nate doesn't attempt to reach out, doesn't try to keep Brad from putting some distance between them, but his eyes rove over Brad's face, dropping to his lips every two seconds like he can’t help himself. His breathing isn't as rough as Brad's, but he swallows hard, once, licks his lips and opens his mouth.

 

Whatever it is he’s about to say, Brad doesn't want to hear it. Can't. Not with the taste of Nate still on his tongue, the feel of his beating heart under his palm, his scent lingering in the air between them. Brad is never more human than when he is with Nate, and there’s only so much he can bear. He may have made his peace with betraying the country that raised him, it’s a different thing entirely to betray himself so utterly.

 

"You should go." He forces the words out through clenched teeth. If he concentrates hard enough, nothing else but his voice will exist, and the enormity of what is going to unfold in the next few hours will be an afterthought lost in the void between universes.

 

“Brad, wh–”

 

“Please.”

 

Nate stops talking but keeps standing there, and for the very first time in a long while, Brad sees him and cannot figure him out. He lets it scare him for an entire second before locking the feeling away.

 

“Please,” he repeats. He sounds too calm, and Nate notices, of course he does. So Brad allows himself one more indulgence, one more stupid thing to be cast off in the void. He walks back to Nate, close and close and closer, rests his forehead on Nate’s shoulder, and shuts his mind to everything else. Nate is tall enough that it isn’t as awkward and uncomfortable as it could be, and his hand fits at the nape of Brad’s neck like it was made to be there. Brad wishes he trusted his own hands enough to reciprocate. Instead, he balls them into fists and pretends not to notice that they are shaking.

 

Brad straightens and takes a step back, then another, and another, until Nate’s way to the door is clear and will not bring him any closer to Brad than he already is. He’s had more of Nate than he was ever supposed to have, and Nate is still there. Not leaving, not angry, not afraid. It’s enough for a lifetime. It has to be.

 

“I’ll be seeing you,” Nate says, older and solemn but still so hopeful, and despite everything it steals a smile from Brad. It’s as good a goodbye as he is going to get.

 

The words he forced on the paper like so much blood from his veins still clear in his mind, Brad says, “Yes, you will.” And he cannot wait, _he_ _cannot wait_ –

 

The image of him carved inside Brad’s head, Nate leaves. The door closes behind him without a sound.

 

____________

 

In the end, it’s laughably easy. For all their rhetoric and their weapons and their power, it is child’s play to break into the top secret department of the Secret Police – when you’re Brad Colbert, that is, the ultimate persona grata.

 

Clad in his black uniform, Brad walks down the corridor to the restricted section. There was no reason for anyone to deny him entry, so they didn’t. Even his request to be left alone for a second is received with nothing more than deferential nods and the sound of scurrying feet.

Brad shakes his head. Dictatorship makes people so eager to accommodate any authority figure, they would never even think of questioning said authority as long as it keeps them safe. He slowly walks down the row of lab tables, not sure what he’s looking for, yet absolutely certain he’ll know when he sees it.

 

Ray, for all his research, couldn’t find out what the artifact would look like. His best guess was ‘something that radiates power’. Brad only hopes that whatever it is will be small enough to fit in his inside pocket.

 

His steps echo in the empty laboratory, and Brad hurries towards the area in the back. It is closed off by glass windows, and Brad can see rows and rows of storage boxes. They are neatly labelled, at least – one thing the Nazis know is how to embrace bureaucracy – but the sheer volume of them makes Brad sigh. He doesn’t have much time.

 

He opens the door – and scoffs; no lock. The _arrogance_ – and looks at the logbook lying on a stack of boxes. The artifact was only discovered three weeks ago, so he discards all older entries. His eyes race over entry after entry – listing everything from valuable pieces of art to uncommon rocks, it seems – until they find what they are looking for.

 

“Cube, Past.” the entry reads, the cursive lettering no different from the line above or below, inconspicuous of the role its object will play. “Box HH.C.09.54”

 

Without a further glance, Brad turns towards the storage shelves. It takes him a moment to figure out the shelving system, but once again, Germanic accuracy comes to his help. The box is on the second shelf to his left, right between box HH B and HH D, exactly where it should be.

 

Brad carefully pulls it out of the shelf, opens the top and glances inside. Whatever he expected, it’s not like that. The artifact is fist-sized, grey, and looks more like a lump of molten lava than something that will change the world. Brad puts on his gloves and carefully puts the artifact in the pocket of his jacket. It adds a bit of bulk, but not too much to be reasoned away.

 

He takes another look in the box and is glad he did. Ever the diligent scientists, the researchers left a notebook in the box as well. Brad doesn’t bother to look at it – it might be related, it might not, but it would be stupid to leave it. He closes the box again and shelves it correctly.

 

As far as robberies go, Brad thinks as he walks out of the lab and nods to the scientists waiting outside in a huddle, this was underwhelming.

 

One stop down, two more to go. He needs to change.

 

-

 

The position of front-desk librarian at the National Library of the National Socialist States of America is pretty routine. You would think that protecting the largest bank of information of and about the greatest superpower in the world would have an element of _action_ to it. As it turns out, the famed ruthless efficiency of the Reich extends even to the workings and filing systems of libraries, where nobody ever asks for books because they’re so well-organized anyone with half a brain can find what they’re looking for on their own. The closest the job comes to exciting is when a couple of loud kids doing research for their homework need to be shushed.

 

So it is no surprise that Edith Meyer can’t believe her eyes when she sees who is walking into the library. Hauptscharführer Colbert is taller than she expected, and every bit as beautiful. She panics for a moment when she realizes he’s walking directly towards her, and takes a moment to admire his beautiful suit. Grey, with a white shirt and a black tie – she tries to take in as many details as she can in the few seconds it takes him to reach her desk.

 

Once he’s standing in front of her, she has to viciously stomp on the instinct to check whether her hair is in place. She did her hair only this morning, so it should be still alright, but with the rationing it’s impossible to get your hands on hairspray, and the walk to work this morning was quite windy, what if she’s been looking like some windswept farm girl since this morning and _no one told her_? Not even taking into account the humidity in here, or lack thereof, what with the books and conserving them, and–

 

A polite ‘Excuse me, Misses?’ interrupts her thoughts. Edith’s eyes dart upwards. She has to crane her neck to meet Colbert’s eyes, but they are blue and bright and kind and oh so beautiful.

 

“Miss,” she answers automatically, and feels a blush spread over her cheeks.

 

“Miss,” Brad Colbert, _Hauptscharführer_ , repeats, his eyes roving over her face. “Does that lovely face come with a name?” He smiles again, and Edith realizes that all the magazines do not do justice to the full power of Brad Colbert’s smile, oh no, they cannot. She smiles helplessly back.

 

“Edith. Edith Meyers,” she says, thankful for the chair she’s sitting in.

 

Brad Colbert nods. “That’s a lovely name, Edith.” Her cheeks must look like they are on fire, but she cannot help it. Hauptscharführer Colbert told her she had a lovely name. Good gracious, her sweater is way too warm for the season.

 

Before she can parse an appropriate response, he continues. “I was hoping you could help me with something, Edith.” Her name sounds like a secret, coming from his mouth. He leans over the counter, casual but not overly familiar, and Edith can smell his cologne. Spicy but subtle, not something you would get at the department store. She nods, captivated.

 

“You see, Edith, I am finding myself with a bit of a problem.” His eyes look at her, earnest, and in this moment Edith knows she’ll do whatever she can do help him. Help the Reich. Whichever. She is ready, one hundred percent operational. She’s never loved her country more than she does it this very moment.

 

“You see, I am responsible for the security strategy of the Reich.” His voice drops to a whisper, rich like the caramel her mother used to make. “And for that, I need to do some research on past … incidents.”

 

There’s a slight hitch in his voice at the word, and Edith nods again hesitantly, not sure where this is going, but willing to follow anyway. Incidents are bound to happen when people try to stop progress. The Reich does have a habit of taking drastic measures, and oh, all those mass executions, dreadful, but they made America great again. And it’s not like Edith herself would ever be at risk. And if someone like Hauptscharführer Colbert does not cry over collateral damage, then clearly Edith shouldn’t either.

 

“Right now, I’m mainly interested in past assassinations and assassination attempts,” Colbert continues. “Of which, fortunately, we haven’t seen many since the end of the war.”

 

Again, Edith nods, though she cannot help recalling that the last attempt was on his person, and what a terrifying day it was.

 

“Thanks to the Reich,” she chirps with a smile, and Colbert tilts his head in agreement.

 

“Exactly. Constant police presence is one of the most wonderful tool a government has at its disposal to bring order to a nation, although in this particular case, it deprives me of material to peruse. Which is why I decided to cast my net a bit wider.” He is whispering again, leaning close, and Edith hopes this conversation never ends.

 

“In particular, I’m interested in the successful assassination of former United States President Franklin D. Roosevelt.” Edith nods without any conscious input, her head tilting back and forth on her neck like a children’s toy. This is way above her pay grade, she is fairly sure, but hell if she’s going to say no to this man. Something must have shown on her face because Brad Colbert continues.

 

“Now, I could just go to the head archivist, of course,” there, he pauses for a moment, “but I figured he’d just direct me to the library anyways, so I wanted to cut the middleman and not waste anybody’s time.”

 

Edith nods a bit more decisively. That makes sense. They do sometimes have queries to pull information from their archives, restricted or not. Actually, the assassination is quite a popular research theme, and she could probably pull something together… Queries always come with paperwork and at least two authorization forms, but if there’s one person who doesn’t need a piece of paper to borrow something from Edith’s library, it’s Hauptscharführer Colbert. He’s the child of the Reich, the soldier who just got hurt in the line of duty. He said her name was lovely! It’s her time to give back.

 

“Of course, HSF Colbert. I think I can pull something together for you. Would you mind coming back in an hour?” She can work over lunch for this. She _will_ work over lunch for this. Perhaps she can get Margot to help her.

 

His smile is incandescent and beautiful. “Of course, Edith. Thank you very much. I’ll see you in an hour.” And with that, Brad Colbert turns and walks away.

 

-

 

It’s been a long day by the time Brad makes it back to his apartment. He heaves a sigh as he locks the door behind him. The longest day.

 

He carefully reaches into his jacket pocket and removes the artifact. The Reich has not noticed its absence yet, otherwise they would have called him in for sure. Or waited for him in his apartment. But just as Ray figured - the past is not half as valuable to them as the future. Brad shakes his head. They got it all wrong.

 

He carefully places the artifact and the notebook at his couch table. From another pocket, he removes a bundle of papers, bound together by string. The librarian had apologized for not having time to properly bind it, but he waved her off. Judging from her starry-eyed look, he’ll find all the information he needs in there. He looks at the three objects. They are ready.

 

He slowly walks to the phone, trying to savour each moment. His life has an end now. He takes a deep breath while dialing, trying to get his thoughts under control. He hasn’t succeeded by the time his call gets picked up.

 

“Aloha my broha.” Ray doesn’t seem to have the same awe of things than Brad does, but then, what else is new.

 

“Ray. It’s done.” There’s a minute of silence on the other end.

 

“Wowza, good soldier. You’re a bit ahead of time there,” Ray says, sounding like he missed a step somewhere and tripped, and Brad realizes he was ever so wrong. None of them is ready to go. But then, they never will be, either.

 

“Certain factors made me push the plan forward,” he says, hoping Ray won’t ask. “Can you tell Mike to come to my apartment as soon as possible?”

 

“Wait, wait wait, my gentle giant. You want to do it now? Tonight?” Ray’s voice breaks at the end. “Nate won’t back from his shift until late. I’m good, but he won’t be able to get out of work in time.”

 

Brad swallows. “It’s alright. Nate knows.” Surely, he must have guessed. Again, there’s a silence. “Just tell Mike to come over when he’s ready, okay?”

 

Ray’s voice is small. “Okay, my man.” Brad can hear him breathe heavily. “Um. It was an honour to work with you, Bradley-Radley.” Despite himself, Brad smiles.

 

“Same to you, you useless hick.” And then, because he doesn’t want that to be his last words, he adds “I’ll see you on the other side.”

 

“Yeah. Sure you will, homes. Don’t join any gangs this time. I mean. Shit.” There’s another beat of silence. “Take care.”

 

“You too, Ray.”

 

____________

 

Mike Wynn is rarely nervous. He will worry, mostly about others, seldom about himself, but nerves, he has learned, won’t do you any good when you’re living the kind of life he’s been living. When Ray calls him to relay Brad’s invitation, though, there’s a spike of _something_. Might not be nerves. Might be, too. It has him slow to stillness, the inside of his head going very very quiet and every atom in his body very very loud.  

 

“So I guess this is it.” Mike was never one to state the obvious, but he finds himself at a loss. This is one of those moments that should deserve a little fanfare, perhaps even a speech, but Mike has been officially dead for years and in the resistance longer than that. He doesn’t remember how to do anything loudly.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Mike waits a beat but Ray doesn’t offer any expletives or carefully crafted rant, nothing. The silence leaves Mike feeling strangely off-kilter.

 

“Nate isn’t home yet.” It’s all he can find to say, and now that the words are out, it’s the only thought in his head. The idea of leaving before Nate comes home is unthinkable. He can’t not say goodbye to the kid, can’t just leave him. Not leaving Nate has been Mike’s life for years.

 

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Ray says. It’s easy to forget how perceptive he is when he isn’t trying to hide it. Mike takes one deep breath.

 

“Brad said now?”

 

“He said as soon as possible.”

 

It’s as good as a now. Well.

 

“Thank you, Ray.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I mean it. Thank you.”

 

“Yeah, well. Send me a fruit basket if I ever get married in that happy universe of yours. Or better! A booze basket! So I don’t die for nothing. Or cease existing, or whatever it is we’re calling this timespace continuum fuckery you’re about to unleash.”

 

Mike snorts, and he doesn’t feel better, doesn’t feel much of anything at all, but this is good, this is familiar. It makes it easy when he says :

 

“I promise.” And then, quieter, “Goodbye, Ray.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, see ya. I’m partial to gin, by the way,” Ray says and promptly hangs up.

 

Mike puts the receiver back in its cradle, puts on his jacket. He goes to the living room, pushes the couch off from against the wall and kneels on the floor in the cleared space. The loose floorboard is as easy to remove as it was when Mike hid the bag. It’s a small bag, but Ray and him have made sure, in what little time they’ve had since that fateful meeting, that it would contain everything Mike would require to– to complete his mission. To survive. To _live_.

 

Bag slung over his shoulder, he grabs a pen and a piece of paper. Ray is right, this is better.

 

He locks the front door behind him, hides the key under the mat, and walks off into the falling night.

 

> _GONE ON AN ERRAND, WILL BE BACK.  
>  _

 

____________

 

Ray slowly walks to the small window of his attic apartment and looks out upon the city. He’s made the last phone call of his life. Somewhere in the maze of streets, Mike is on his way to Brad’s, implementing the final part of their plan.

 

Ray smiles. They all have to die. It is a question of hours, not days, now.

 

He thinks of his mama, smart enough to hide the fact she had a son, proud till the end, walking upright when they came for her. He thinks of his escape to New York, hiding, moving at night. He thinks of his first mission here - cutting a telegraph cable, of all fucking things, how primitive.

 

How far they’ve come.

 

He thinks of meeting Nate for the first time, the innocent boy in front of the women’s lingerie store. He thinks of his first meeting with Mike, the firmness of his handshake, the inherent trustworthiness of him. He thinks of the last time he saw Poke - almost a year ago now, when Poke was still able to cross the border fairly easily.

 

He thinks of his family, and hopes they’ll make it alright.

 

“Godspeed, you crazy fuckers,” he says, to nobody in particular.

 

____________

 

It’s strange, standing in the street in front of Brad’s building and knowing that he can use the front door and it would not matter long enough to be of consequence. It’s stranger still when he looks through the glass and into the hall and sees Brad there, talking with the doorman. He has his hands in his pockets and his posture seems relaxed, no urgency or distress written on his face. Brad catches sight of him, and his expression doesn’t change exactly, but Mike knows coming right away was the right decision.

 

Brad walks to the door and holds it open, to the abject horror of the doorman who immediately starts spluttering protests.

 

“Hauptscharführer, please, you can’t! Let me!”

 

Brad turns towards the man, one hand raised to stop any further comments. The doorman shuts up, all his discontent visible in his pinched lips and the way he does not quite dare glare at Brad. To Mike’s astonishment, Brad grins.

 

“Rupert,” he says, “this is the first and last time I will ever hold this door myself, I promise.”

 

And it’s so casual, so effortless that the doorman relents and offers a good-natured smile in exchange. Then Brad turns to Mike, and the mask falls to reveal the raw, desperate hunger and determination beneath. Mike’s worry ratchets up at the thought that Brad may have called because he has reached his limit and if they don’t act now he’s going to crack.

 

“Mike,” he greets. “Please come in. I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty of waiting for you here. I wasn’t sure which way you’d choose to come in.”

 

Mike can’t help the sharp glance he throws at the doorman to check whether he’s heard. Brad doesn’t stop him, but doesn’t seem concerned either. While still looking slightly upset with Brad’s earlier display, the doorman isn’t watching them, isn’t paying them any visible attention. Then again, being discreet and self effacing would be part of his job.

 

Then again, Mike realises as his eyes return to Brad’s face, what does it matter? He huffs a weary laugh.

 

“I figured I might as well try through here today.”

 

He steps inside, and Brad lets the door close behind him under the disapproving eye of the doorman before making his way to the elevators at the end of the hall. The act drops completely once they’re inside the closed elevator shaft riding up.

 

“Thanks for coming so quickly, Mike.” Brad keeps his voice low, but it’s dripping with relief and something else, something Mike can’t quite identify.

 

“Brad, what happened?”

 

Brad doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at him. He keeps his eyes on the floor numbers lighting up, one after the other, until number six lights up and the elevator stops.

 

“Nate came to see me,” he says then, and steps out and into the corridor before Mike has time to reply. It takes Mike a second to catch up. By the time he reaches the door to Brad’s place, it’s open and Brad is already inside, pacing.

 

“What does that mean, Nate came to see you?” Mike asks after closing the door behind him. He didn’t think he had to worry about this anymore, but an ugly thought forms in his head that he hates having but cannot ignore.

 

“Did you hurt him?” he asks, and God help him if Brad did.

 

The question stops Brad in his track, and the look of genuine confusion on his face does more to assuage Mike’s fears than the anger that follows.

 

“If you still believe for one second that I would, then clearly I was mistaken in the soundness of our association.”

 

It comes out as flat and unemotional as Mike has ever heard Brad, and even after everything he’s seen of him, it takes Mike a second to realise that this is Brad hurt. Something shifts in his composure, a slight change in his posture, in the expression on his face. Before Mike knows it, the Brad he’s looking at is the man he first met: freshly promoted Hautpscharführer Colbert, back from the Neutral Zone after a life changing decision, risking his life and more on the word of a Mexican smuggler he met a mere few months prior, yet standing there like an immovable object, unreadable and untouchable, with eyes cold as ice and the assurance of someone whose fate could not, would not, depend on anyone but himself.

 

Be gentle, Poke had said. Mike had heeded the words then. He heeds them now.

 

“Brad,” he says, firm but not unkind, “What happened?”

 

It isn’t immediate, but Brad’s fingers twitch, he blinks, and the tense line of his shoulders relaxes until he stops being a stranger and Mike doesn’t fear cutting himself if he were to step closer.

 

“Nate came to see me,” Brad repeats.

 

He doesn’t add anything, leaves the words at Mike’s feet and lets him try to make sense of them. It isn’t so much the words that hit Mike, this time, but the way Brad says them; soft, with hint of wonder, even as he curls his fists and lifts his chin. Pleading to be understood. Daring to be judged.

 

Oh, Mike thinks.

 

Oh.

 

So this is why the end of the world is being moved forward. Because Brad Colbert has a heart, and it has reached its limit. It’s a bit ironic that after all the violence Brad has seen, this would be the straw.

 

There is a lot Mike could say about it, but at the end of the day he wouldn’t be able to fault Brad, so he takes a deep breath and says nothing. They were going to have to do it eventually, it was the plan, now or a week or a month from now. Given the circumstances, waiting helps no one. It isn’t like one can prepare himself for what he’s about to do. He has everything he physically needs. The rest, well. The rest he’ll have to handle.

 

It doesn’t stop the hollow feeling in his chest or how his head suddenly feels dizzy.

 

“Got your hands on it, then?” he says, because he needs to move this along. He can’t think about what Brad just confessed, or about his conversation with Ray, or about how he doesn’t remember what he said to Nate this morning before Nate left.

 

The look Brad gives him is both grateful and understanding, and for a second Mike wishes they could have found him sooner, given him more time with them. He watches as Brad slips a hand in his pocket and pulls it out holding what looks like–

 

There’s a beat.

 

“...Is this it?” Mike asks flatly.

 

Brad huffs a laugh, the small rock sitting on his open palm looking nothing like a magical artefact with the power to alter the universe itself.

 

Mike didn’t mean to sound dubious, but he expected… More. It’s underwhelming.

 

“How did you even know what it was?”

 

“Do not ever doubt the Reich’s obsessive passion for bureaucracy and proper classification,” Brad replies with a grim smile. “All I had to do was follow the register and there it was.”

 

“Does it work?” Mike cannot help asking. It’s a rock. It isn’t even shiny.

 

“Yes.”

 

The absolute lack of hesitation has Mike’s eyes snap up to Brad’s face. Brad holds his gaze and doesn’t confirm the silent assumption, but the absence of objection is an answer in itself. Mike wants to ask but doesn’t. When Brad went is his to know, all Mike needs to know is that the thing works.

 

He takes the rock from Brad’s hand. It doesn’t feel any heavier than it looks.

 

“Okay,” he says. He’s not sure how to proceed. From the looks, neither is Brad. His now empty hand hangs loosely at his side and Brad glances at it with a frown, as if wondering what he is supposed to do with it now.

 

Mike’s own hand keeps holding the artifact in an open palm, unsure whether to close his fingers around it or not.

 

“I had a file compiled with all the intel the Reich has on the assassination,” Brad says after a short pause, visibly gathering himself. He walks to the kitchen and grab an envelope lying on the counter. “Exact time and place, name and picture of the shooter, precise description of his appearance on that day and the gear he was carrying, logistics–”

 

He stops then, looks at Mike, and smiles wryly.

 

“Half of which you already know, don’t you?” he says, nodding to the backpack Mike is still carrying.

 

“Well,” Mike shrugs, “Ray and I figured we’d get a head start. Why delay once the decision’s been made?”

 

Brad tilts his head in approval, gestures over to the couch, and takes a seat after Mike.

 

“Let’s review what we have,” Brad says, spreading the contents of the envelope on the coffee table.

 

Ray’s intel, it turns out, is incomplete but scarily accurate. To the point that Brad wonders aloud how and where he got some of the details, part of which Brad apparently knew but could not find written record of. The pride Mike always feels when someone recognizes the skills of his team turns bittersweet when the question of how Ray will use that brain of his in the new universe they’ll be creating immediately follows. He has to think of it that way; not dying, not being erased, but simply. Taking a left where they took a right twenty years ago. Same people, different paths, different lives. Better lives.

 

It doesn’t matter how right and well-intentioned you think you are, rewriting the history of a planet is a power no one should have, let alone a dead man from Texas. That he is about to play God, or as close to it as it will ever come, is something Mike tries not to think about.

 

He reads the papers Brad gives him and commits every word and picture to memory. Brad offers insights, scribbles notes on the documents. He seems more at ease now that they’re back on familiar grounds, planning a mission. Mike understands that all too well.

 

In the end, though, there is only so much intel to go over. They know what they have to prevent, the rest will be. Well. History.

 

“We don’t even know if Roosevelt surviving will change anything,” Mike says once they’re done. It isn’t meant as a defeatist statement, and Brad doesn’t take it as such.

 

“No, we don’t,” he replies, then shrugs. “The Reich seems to think so, and it’s the only fixed event we have.”

 

It isn’t, not exactly. Mike could go back further into the past. He could go back to the 20s, get himself to Germany or Austria, and kill Adolf Hitler before any of this even starts. He has no doubt that Brad knows it. Just like he has no doubt that Brad, just like Mike himself, is only human. He needs to know that he will be part of this new world. Changing anything too soon could mean none of them would exist at all. Mike cannot bear the thought of it, and he is certain, now more than ever, that Brad would not disagree. They need this new life for themselves, and damn this whole wretched universe if that makes them selfish.

 

And suddenly, Mike can’t put it off any longer. They’re only dragging it out, sitting there and discussing it. Mike’s been reading what Ray found him for months. Every word Brad said to him for the past hour is a brand in his mind, he couldn’t forget any of it if he tried. There is nothing more to do, there is no getting more ready for it than he is now, and who knows how many more atrocities are being committed for every minute they don’t act?

 

“Brad,” Mike says.

 

Something in his voice or on his face must show, because Brad throws one look at him and nods, solemn. He starts gathering all the documents spread out on the table.

 

“The artifact will move you through time,” Brad says, “not space. You need to find a place where you can land safely, back in 1933.”

 

Mike had figured.

 

“I know just the place,” he says, without elaborating. Brad doesn’t ask.

 

They both stand up at the same time, an odd tension in the air, anticipation and fear and, perhaps, relief. Brad’s jaw is clenched, and his posture is too stiff, but his eyes are clear. Mike is feeling too many things at once to name any, but there is no doubt in his heart nor in his mind.

He accepts the file from Brad’s hand, and once it’s safely stored in his backpack, Mike feels settled.

 

He is doing this.

 

“I have a favor to ask,” Brad says then. It’s unexpected, but not unwelcome, and Mike is nodding before Brad has finished his sentence.

 

Brad walks away and up the wide staircase, disappearing from Mike’s sight for a handful of seconds before coming back down. Mike breathes in, breathes out.

 

“Here.”

 

Brad is holding out a letter, a simple envelope with a handwritten address on it and a stamp that looks unfamiliar until Mike realises it’s a stamp from the 30s. From before. You don’t get those for a few cents at the post office. His eyes snap up to Brad’s face before going back to the name on the envelope, unable to look away.

 

Mike never asked Poke the details of his meeting with Brad. He never asked what Brad told him, and Poke never offered. If anything, Mike is pretty sure Poke would have kept Brad’s secret to the grave if it came to that. All he could infer, was that it must have been something life-changing, and he had made guesses in the privacy of his own mind.

 

“Don’t post it until 39,” Brad says, and Mike tears his gaze away from the letter to look at him, to _see_ him. “They won’t have me until then.”

 

_Brad Colbert-Morgenthal_

_4660 La Jolla Village Drive_

_San Diego_

_California_

 

Brad wasn’t born in a New York City orphanage. Brad had parents. Parents with a very, very Jewish name. It was one of Mike’s guesses, one he had laughed at and dismissed and that now makes him feel sick. Brad is a Jew. Brad was always a Jew. He swallows, and slips the letter in his pocket, fingers resting over it but too numb to feel it. There is not time to discuss it, no point.

 

“Not until 39,” Mike repeats with a nod. “Understood.” It’s only one more reason to go on.

 

“I won’t fail you,” he says instead, catching Brad’s gaze and holding it, pouring every ounce of determination into the words.

 

And Brad looks back, tall and proud, like he didn’t cut himself open once again, baring his heart for all to see. “I know,” he says. “You can’t.”

 

Mike has heard people beg their god with less faith in their prayers than Brad put into his words. He has a flash of this morning, this terrible morning, when the bomb fell and the world changed, and the way his head feels like it’s spinning now is only an echo of the way it felt then, but it shakes him.

 

“I’ll find you,” he vows then, unbidden, because he can’t not.

 

“Don’t–” Brad starts, but Mike shakes his head.

 

“I’ll find you,” he repeats, brooking no argument. If this is the last promise he makes in this universe, so be it, and damn him if he won’t keep it. Mike is done giving things up. He is done having good people give everything up. Brad caves almost too easily, the expression on his face softening as he nods, and Mike fingers itch with the urge to reach out, to comfort the kid he cannot unsee in Brad now.

 

Brad opens his mouth, eyes dropping to Mike’s pocket, where his letter is, but he changes his mind before saying anything, closes his mouth even as his eyes linger. Mike hesitates for a second and takes a leap of faith.

 

“Nate, too,” he says, gently, like a secret, and the shock on Brad’s face breaks his heart. The man looks gutted, as if the last barrier he didn’t know he had around his heart was suddenly torn away. Mike cannot wait to give the world to him. “I’ll find you both.” He cannot wait to give the world to them.  

 

Brad swallows, clenches his jaw, and nods. Mike extends his hand.

 

It’s time.

 

“It was an honor,” he says. It has, oh but it has.

 

Brad grabs his hand, squeezes once, and lets go. He looks more alive than Mike has ever seen him.

 

“Likewise,” Brad says, and he smiles, small and unguarded and hopeful in spite of everything.

 

It’s the same smile Nate’s had since Mike met him all those years ago. Mike closes his eyes and pictures it for the length of a breath, and lets it go.

 

He needs to leave now.

 

His fingers skim over his pockets, the straps of his backpack, absently checking for things he knows he has. He turns away from Brad and towards the door. Then it’s the hallway, and the elevator, and the hall, and the front door again. Mike leaves it all behind until he is standing under the night sky.

 

Mike is not a poetic man, but he looks up at the moon, high up in the sky, framed by a spattering of stars, and takes comfort in the knowledge that, whatever he does, however it turns out, he cannot touch this. His heart is drumming, his ears are rushing, the artifact is burning a hole in his pocket, but the moon? Doesn’t give a good goddamn. Mike scoffs, his breath shaking almost as much as his fingers.

 

He wishes he had a cigarette.

 

He wishes his mother were alive.

 

He wishes–

 

He turns the collar of his jacket up against the breeze, and starts walking.

 

He has somewhen he needs to be.


	4. Epilogue

####  **1933**

 

Close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out, open your eyes: there you are. Mike looks around, his surroundings not as alien as they were the first time, just enough to make his heart skip a beat before settling down again. That old, dusty chair in the corner. The gurgling noises from the kitchen sink. Twenty years will change your memories, make a small, damp, ill-lit apartment look cosy and welcoming. It’s empty, though, and that’s the only thing that matters. 

 

He walks over to the window and looks at the street below. There are kids playing a bastard version of baseball right in the middle of it. For a second, Mike’s breath catches, the urge to scream at them to get out of there so strong his mouth opens before he remembers. Nothing’s going to happen to them. Not yet. 

Not ever. Mike’s here to make sure of that. 

 

He turns away from the window and checks his pockets. His left hand finds a small, square piece of paper folded in half, his right brushes the corner of a thick envelope. He exhales, relieved. Everything he needs traveled safely with him. The enormity of the task ahead dawns on him, as it did randomly since the whole plan was hatched. 

Jesus, what the hell were they thinking? What the hell is he thinking, standing there like the future of the world doesn’t depend on him? 

 

Mike gives himself five seconds to fully comprehend how mad this scheme is, chuckling hopelessly, a hand over his mouth to keep the hysteria from getting out. Despite the odds and how high the stakes, there’s no dread, no latent doubt, no fear. It’s simple, just like Brad said:  Failure is not an option, not in this mission. Brad knows this better than anyone, so Mike’s inclined to take his word for it. Hell, the envelope in his pocket is solid proof that Brad trusts him not only with the success of his mission, but also with his own hazardous chance at happiness. 

Fucking Brad. Fucking Nate. What Mike wouldn’t do for these kids. 

 

He takes the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and studies it. It’s more of a habit by now, the photograph and scribbled time and place burnt in his memory from hours of going over them during planning. 

Time to get to work.

 

First things first, he needs to find a newspaper and make sure he’s when he’s supposed to be. Then. Well. Then he’s saving the world. Hopefully.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


####  **1962**

 

Mike stops himself from checking the number next to the door. It’s the right house, he knows it’s the right house. 

 

Despite the past twenty years, there are still moments of doubt and disbelief. He doesn’t wake up every day expecting to be back there, back  _ then _ , not anymore, but some elements of this reality still feel fragile enough that he dares not disturb them for fear of ruining an illusion. Standing on this porch, under a bright blue sky, Mike has never been more reluctant to take a step. The very last step.

 

He’s found everyone. All of them. Ray, Poke, Lilley, Rudy, Pappy. Even Walt. He’s checked on all of them from a distance, made sure that he didn’t fuck up, that there were no regrets to have. And there weren’t. Hell, if anything, Mike couldn’t have dreamed up better lives for any of them.  

 

He takes a deep breath and raises his hand to knock. Sunlight glints off the wedding band on his finger.

 

Mike couldn’t have dreamt a better life for himself.

 

He knocks three times, sharp and precise, and hopes.

 

A dog barks from within the house. It’s a happy bark, a “someone’s at the door, let’s go say hi!” kind of bark. Mike lets out a chuckle, startled. He didn’t know about the dog. But it’s a good sign. He hears the click of claws on hardwood floors coming closer fast and–

 

“Argos, careful, you’re gonna–”

 

–and that’s Nate’s voice. Followed by a loud thump against the door. 

 

“You’re never gonna learn, are you?”

 

Another happy bark.

 

Mike shakes his head and grins, and part of the weight he’s been carrying for two decades drops off his shoulders. When the door finally opens –and he thinks  _ finally _ , but it’s only been a few seconds. How impatient he is now, after putting this off and off and off– Mike’s hand goes to his pocket without thought. Because Nate is standing in front of him, and it’s like the earth has stopped turning again and they’re both suspended in time. 

 

He looks so young. Of course he does. It’s 1962, Nate is 23. Again. Still. And it shouldn’t be such a shock,  _ isn’t _ , except for how Nate was always his little brother, and now he could be his son. The thing with living your life uninterrupted when everyone you ever knew gets to restart, is that you slide out of sync a bit more every day. It wasn’t much of a change with the others, but now, for the first time, it hits Mike. His Nate is gone. This one is a world away from him. 

 

“Hello,” Nate says, polite and friendly and utterly, blissfully oblivious.

 

Something lodges in Mike’s throat, and he has to swallow around it as his eyes roam over the man before him. He looks so similar. Down to the awkward resting stance, made even worse by the enthusiastic golden retriever straining to make his way past his legs. But this Nate is healthy, and happy, and better than that: he’s soft. He’s soft where Mike’s Nate wasn’t, lean but not gaunt. Sharp but not cutting. He’s everything Mike wished for. 

 

Mike lets grief wash over him for the length of two heartbeats. Another part of him gone for good.

 

“Hello,” he replies. He doesn’t have to force the smile that follows. There’s only one thing left, now. He knew he would find Nate there, came here to see him. But Mike sent a letter, all those years ago. He carried it through time, on an impossible mission to accomplish an impossible task. He sent it and all his hopes with it, and today is the day he gets to see if this world is really as good as it promised, if they all got the happy ending they sacrificed everything for.

 

He takes Nate in, the wonderful existence of him in all its possibilities, and asks :

 

“Is Brad here?”

 

Nate frowns, and that’s an expression Mike’s familiar with if there ever was one. It throws him for a second, doubt coming crashing back, before the light in Nate’s eyes goes from simply curious to something more. It isn’t recognition, but there’s an acknowledgement there that has Mike’s heart leap.

 

“Brad,” Nate calls loudly, turning his head slightly towards the house but never taking his eyes off Mike. “Someone at the door for you.”

 

When Brad Colbert appears behind Nate Fick in the foyer of their house, both of them as young as the day he left them, healthy and happy and  _ together _ , it’s as if Mike’s entire existence, his first life and the new, finally align, anchoring him in reality for the first time since he appeared out of thin air and set out to save the world. The weight drops off his shoulders completely.

 

They made it. All of them. 

 

Brad takes one look at him, and it’s no wonder Mike could never find any trace of him. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a bright yellow tee-shirt, yet somehow he is  _ exactly the same _ . It’s jarring, and when their eyes meet, Mike almost takes a step back, the familiarity of that gaze hitting him like a blow. It’s gone in a flash, the last of Mike’s ghosts dissipating in the sunlight. Mike blinks, and here stands Brad, a Brad he knows but doesn’t, a Brad whose soul remembers perhaps more than it should, but less than it would take to ruin him. A Brad who believed an unbelievable letter and went after what the other wouldn’t let himself have.

 

“Would you like to come in?” Brad asks, snapping Mike out of his thoughts. 

 

It’s 1962 and Mike Wynn is 48 years old. He was born in Texas in 1934. He’s lived two lives in one lifetime, has seen a world nobody would believe in, has defied physics and nature and wielded a power too incredible to comprehend to drastically and irrevocably alter reality. He is a nobody, he is a god, he is a hero. He is a man standing in front of a door he thought would never exist anymore, let alone open for him.

 

“Yes, Brad,” he says, “I would love to come in.”

**Author's Note:**

> YOU MADE IT! Congratulations, and thank you so much for sticking with us through the entire ride.


End file.
